


Something Wicked This Way Comes

by joshlerhoe



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Animal Death, Blood and Gore, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Halloween, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, spooky stuff, there's dogs but nothing bad happens to them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-15 02:02:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11796138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joshlerhoe/pseuds/joshlerhoe
Summary: Rick comes to his grandparent's farm after seven long years away when things get tense at home, but not all is well. Something is terribly wrong on the farm, something evil in the wind. Can Rick and the surly farmhand Daryl save the day? Or will it all go to hell?





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Rickyl fic and I'm not sure how many chapters it will be and I'm dyslexic and this is unbeta'd so yeah, constructive criticism is encouraged. No schedule for updates but I'll try as hard as I can to keep up.
> 
> Buy Kesha's new album Rainbow on iTunes

The ride from Atlanta to Virginia was always a long one, but as a child, the miles seemed to slip away amidst sporadic naps and staring out the window, watching the sprawling plains roll by like an old movie reel. 

Back then, he would lounge in the passenger seat of his dad’s old Chevy, feeling like a real cool guy, sitting shotgun with his old man, letting his curls whip around in the open window. Back then, his dad would play his stupid country rock cassettes, supposedly to “experience the music of the people,” but really, it was an excuse to relive his own childhood, when he used to sit shotgun with his old man. Rick didn’t mind though, he grew to admire the rhythmic twang of Sweet Home Alabama.

That was then, and this is now. 

No more riding shotgun in daddy’s Chevy, no more wind messing up his hair, and no more Sweet Home Alabama. Those were just memories now.

 

Rick rides shotgun in his grandfather’s Dodge, AM radio cutting in and out as the dry brush skittered along the edge of the deserted highway. He can hear one of his bags in the truck bed shifting around with every swerve to avoid a particularly deep crack or pothole. His grandfather would send an occasional glance in his direction, but hadn’t yet attempted conversation. The old man knew his grandson just needed some quiet time to reflect.

To be honest with himself, Rick still wasn’t sure what had happened, but he knew this is where the levee breaks, the straw the broke the camel's back. His own instability clashing with his parents immaturity and self-centered attitudes finally just became too much for the poor boy.

Yet, Rick tried his hand in optimism. ‘Who knows,’ he mused, gazing out the window at the bluing horizon. ‘Maybe this is just what everyone needs. Some time away.’

 

Dark dawn had slowly become high noon, the autumn sun shining on Rick’s dewy eyes, slowly waking him from a much needed cat nap. His neck had a kink and the lock bolt dug into his soft cheek, the teenage boy turning to stare blearily at his grandfather, who got quite the kick out of his grandson’s state.

“Hey Ricky boy, nice of you to join me again, I missed the rousing conversation,” the old man chuckled. Rick did not respond, just assessed where they were on their journey.

“Were only a few miles from the farm Ricky,” his grandfather had informed him, picking up on his confusion. The teen sighed, speaking his first words since leaving Atlanta nearly seven hours ago.

“It’s just Rick now Grampa, Ricky makes me sound like I’m nine,” he mumbled, deflecting his gaze back out the window to the warming oak trees rolling by.

“Well, I haven’t seen you since you were nine, it’s almost unreal to me that it’s been seven years. Your Grandma has been marking the days on the calendar until you come,” the old man explained thoughtfully, seeming to reflect back on the last time he’d seen his beloved grandson.

“...Sorry it’s been so long…” Rick murmured, picking at a loose thread on the worn seat.

“No, none of that. It wasn’t your fault you’ve been away so long, I know it wasn’t you, and your Grandma knows. You’re parents just…” he trailed off, but Rick didn’t need him to finish that sentence. He knew exactly what he meant.

The plain land soon thickened up to crops and a fence, Rick perking up at the sight. He knew what that meant, and suddenly, time had lapsed seven years, excitement boiling over as the truck rolled up the dirt road, loose gravel kicking up under the tires.

His eyes scanned over the familiar sight, the sun bleached corn stalks swaying in the mild breeze, a flock of blackbirds taking off at the telltale roar of the farmers’ engine. Even with the scarecrows that seemed to float above the crops, the blackbirds were persistent, wising up to the old farmers tricks. 

Pulling up the long gravel driveway to the house granted him another wave of childhood nostalgia.

Everything was the same as he remembered: the weathered picket fence, the two car garage, the sprawling maple tree in front of the porch, everything frozen in time. For all Rick knew, perhaps he was nine years old again and the last couple years of friction between he and his parents were just a dream. What a nice thought.

The truck came to a rickety stop, Rick hopping out and unloading his bags; just a couple of suitcases and a backpack from back seat, holding some of his more personal items. He waited for his Grampa to round the truck but the old man shooed him off to the house.

“I got work to do, you just get inside to see Gramma.” Rick didn’t argue, bolting off for the front door, a wooden witch hanging from the knocker.

Opening the front door was like stepping through a wormhole. Nothing had changed. Everything from the floral pattern couch, to the VHS self still stocked, to the Norman Rockwell tapestry on the wall, all frozen in time. Hell, it even smelled the same.

“Gramma!” Rick set his bag down in the wooden rocking chair to collect later as two aging dogs approached him.

“Oh my God, you two are still living?!” Ripley the golden retriever and Buddy the black lab, his very best childhood friends. His eyes welled as he lay down on the ground and let them lick his face and jump all over him, pulling them into hugs and kisses, still excitable as ever, even in their old age. God, those dogs had to be pushing fourteen.

“Is that my Ricky?!” That voice caused his heart to literally skip a beat. He rolled to sit up and then stand, gazing at the woman he hadn’t seen in nearly a decade.

“Hey Gramma,” he choked out, the tears welling up the instant he laid eyes on the old lady, rushing in to wrap his arms around her shoulders, rocking them back and forth as the tears poured, sobbing as he became nine years old again. With her lilac perfume came a flood of feelings, those of midday naps, hanging laundry on the line, warm summer wind. Feelings of fireflies at dusk, fingers brushing his hair, and safety. 

His heart hurt.

“Sorry I was gone for so long,” he croaked, pulling back and wiping the tears away, cheeks pink with emotion. She pursed her lips and brushed a curl out of his eyes.

“It was never your fault honey, we all knew that. Life just got in the way.” That was just a mild way of saying his parents were petty and punished him for grown up stuff he wasn’t involved in. He knew that but it didn’t make it hurt any less. He still missed out on so much time however way it was looked at.

“You’ve gotten tall, Ricky. I’m gonna have to update the door,” she joked, taking him by the hand and leading him into the kitchen. That room had also been untouched by time.

“Are you hungry Ricky? I can make you anything you want, you just name it.” The old lady bustled around the cupboards.

“I’ll eat anything you make me Gramma,” he replied, taking in his surroundings. The chipped brown floor tiles, the hideous orange counter tops, the fully functional 1920’s gas stove that had been handed down from his Great Gramma Mary. All of it was just too much for him.

A plate was set in front of him and a gentle kiss to his hair, so loving and warm.

It felt nice to feel home again.

 

After the most delicious PB&J he’d had in recent memory, Gramma insisted on measuring him against the inside of the basement door. He noted that the further up he looked on the door, the more bare it became, the only ones above the 5 foot mark being those of his grandparents, and a couple of names he didn’t know, and one that had strangely been scribbled out.

“Gramma, who are they?” He pointed out the strange names. She smiled.

“Oh those are the boys that help your Grampa with the field work, the Dixon Brothers. The older one ain’t here anymore, but the younger one is. Like a couple of the family those boys, real handy. Now quit moving Ricky, you’re messing up the measurement.” He smiled and stood stiff as a board as she marked right above his head.

“5’6” You’re 2 feet taller now than when you were nine,” she stated as a matter-of-fact. Rick gazed down at the last mark of him that was made, and all those of his cousins, and even his dad’s made from growing up in this house. Yeah, he sure has missed a lot.

 

Unpacking after the long trip here didn’t sound appealing in the slightest, but exploring sure did. His room was right off the back deck and had once been used as a playroom for he and his cousins all those years ago, the only real significant change in nearly a decade. The nice thing was if he got restless at night, which happens more often than not, he could just climb out the window onto the deck and wander the farm without having to open up the back door and alarm the dogs. 

‘I wonder if the farm has changed at all,’ Rick mused.

 

“I’m gonna go check things out Gramma,” Rick announced, slipping on his boots near the back door. 

“Okay, put on a coat, it’s chilly out there!” She mothered, loading up the washer. He hummed and slipped on a flannel jacket over his heather gray hoodie.

The dogs bustled around him as he opened the door, bolting out as soon as it opened enough for them to dart through, wagging tails smacking each other on the way out.

‘Fourteen years old and they still got play in ‘em.’ Shutting the door behind him, he gazed at the view of the farm. Fifteen acres of golden corn stalks rustling on the wind, the sun hanging overhead, shining warmly down on them. Making his way down from the back deck, he walked the stone path down into the backyard. The sugar maple behind the garage glowing orange in the late autumn season, fallen leaves raked neatly into piles, over eager dogs tromping wildly through them, no doubt making a mess for Gramma to clean up.

Rick took off like a bullet from the chamber, out towards the field with the dogs hot on his heels, barking and howling in excitement. Rick could feel it too, whatever it was that Buddy had Ripley felt. It was almost like getting the gang back together after so long apart.

Like the house, nothing had been touched. Not any yard decorations, not the clothes line, not the metal garden windmill, and he was sure the clubhouse was still standing. 

“C’mon guys, let’s go see the playground!” He called to the dogs, who followed their friend loyally, the trio chasing each other all the way there. Navigating the rows of corn stalks wasn’t at all a challenge, the impression of galavanting these fields for hours, playing ghost in the graveyard with his cousins, helping Grampa plant seeds in the spring, and even hiding among the tall stalks when his parents would come to take him back home. Those memories weren’t as joyful, crying at the thought of going back home and holing up in the field until just maybe they’d just let him stay for just one more night, but life is life.

That was only towards the end though, those long hours of trying to wear out his parents patience. It never worked though. He was always found eventually, probably because he would always choose the same place to hide out but eight year olds are dumb in that sense, and instead of his parents wearing thin at finding him, they would lose their patience with him and his actions. How dumb he was indeed.

Coming up on a clearing, his heart squeezed at the sight of the pinnacle of his childhood on the farm: the clubhouse he and his Grampa built from scratch (all he really did was hand him screws but to a child, that’s a whole lot of work) and the playground consisting of a rusty swing set, a wooden merry-go-round, and a tire tree for climbing on, all set up in a great big sand box.

The clubhouse itself looked to be in shambles, weathered away with years of storms, winters, and sitting stagnant with no children to play inside.

If Rick closed his eyes tight enough, he could see it in its prime.

The sturdy oak walls all shiny with a natural stain, single pane windows, sunshine yellow door, kids running in and out, climbing up on the roof and jumping down, twisting an ankle. He could hear the laughter and screaming, the long days gone by of making pretend. He could see nights out here too, he and all his cousins sneaking out at midnight without their grandparents knowledge, each daring the other to chant some made up hocus pocus to conjure up Chucky the Killer Doll. The only one of them with the bravery and childhood stupidity to actually do it was Stacy Ann, his Aunt Velma’s oldest daughter. She had been hailed at a hero for doing what none of them had the guts to do, but each and every one of them, including Stacy Ann, had turned chicken when there was an ominous wind and a rustling in the crops just minutes later. It soon became every man for themselves in a mad dash back to the safety of the house. 

They had never spoken of it again.

God how time passes when parents issues become their children’s.

He stepped up to the chipped and beaten door, now the color of stomach acid, and slowly twisted the knob with a spine tingling creak.

The sudden stifling air hit him first, next a dust cloud kicked up by the door which surely hadn’t been opened for years, and third being the state of complete disarray the interior was in.

The big table which easily seated eight kids was overturned, legs broken and covered in strange black marks, probably from some sort of infestation. Chalkboard which had hung on the wall was now lying haphazardly on the ground, ugly insects skittering across the slate. It hurt to see the once greatest part of his childhood in a state of such disrepair, but he couldn’t expect any less. 

Perhaps raccoons had made their way in to cause all the chaos. Some big ass raccoons.

Rick didn’t stick around to explore to clubhouse, the sight of it so destroyed weighing too heavy on his heart.

Kicking an upturned chair out of his way, he headed for the exit, shutting the door behind him. Making for the sand pit, Rick ushered the dogs to follow him, the pair barking and prancing towards him.

 

They took the long way around back home through the corn field, the warm sun lowering in the sky, casting a golden wash over the crops. He absently twist the braided bracelet around his left wrist.

It had been a gift from his very best friend back home, Shane. He had made a set in art class, presenting Rick with it in their shared study hall. At the time, it had been the greatest gift he’d ever been given, and it still is to this day. This gift held true emotional meaning for him, some emotions he’d vowed to leave behind and some he’d never want to forget. He ran his thumb over the SW&RG beads, twisting them around the rasta colored string, refusing to dwell on thoughts he’d sworn off.

He kicked up rocks along the row, launching them across the dirt. All this thinking has gotten him an a mood now. All this missed time, parents being assholes, destroyed childhood clubhouse, and missing Shane.

“This is all bullshit, guys,” he complained to the dogs. “Total bullshit.”

They rounded the corner that would set them on the path back home, up near the scarecrows. 

As a kid, the scarecrows freaked him out beyond belief. He’d always hang back while Grampa fastened them to their posts. Just something about how they had no faces that send a chill up his spine, and how they seemed dead, hanging limp in the wind, lurching at any stiff breeze. And the way they seemed to be free floating when seen from a distance, like ghosts.

He was compelled towards the nearest one, gazing up at it. The battered black hat perched on its flimsy head cast an ominous shadow over where a set of eyes should be, an invisible leer still making his knees weak. He could feel it, the same force that terrified him as a child emanating from the scarecrow. The dusty jacket rustled in the wind, heart jolting for a split second at the sudden movement.

“It’s not real,” he scoffed at himself. Nearly a decade and he was still scared of a bag of stuffing strapped to a pole. Pathetic.

The wind shifted and he was pinned on the ground.

A strong force knocked him down, nothing but a dusty jacket swarming his vision. His body tensed and he screamed, hands clawing wildly at the scarecrow, desperate to escape its clutches. His panic intensified as the scarecrow growled and pressed down harder on him, his senses overwhelmed by terror.

“Stop!” he shrieked, tears cascading and breath constricting. He struggled under the weight when suddenly it was just gone and he could breathe again, over just as suddenly as it had started.

Rick lie there shaking in the dirt, mind blank in the sudden calm around him.

A laugh broke him out of his stunned head space, starting off as no more than a snicker but gradually swelling to wheezing and gasping for breath.

Gradually gathering himself, he sluggishly leaned up off the dirt, air finally making its way to his lungs.

A boy, older than himself, was standing above him, doubled over with laughter, the scarecrow lifeless at his feet.

“...W-What?” Rick stuttered, mind piecing together what had happened. His face flushed scarlet, embarrassment filling him to the brim, eyes starting to water once again. The boy never stopped laughing.

Rick jumped to his feet, not sparing a single moment to face his attacker, wasting no time running away from him.

He heard a shout over the ringing in his ears.

“Pussy!”

 

Rick didn’t stop running until he entered the backyard, far away from the lot of scarecrows, straight towards where Gramma was hanging shirts on the clothes line. 

She turned, the sound of barking dogs alerting her to her grandsons return, but was shocked to see the state of him.

“Rick! What happened to you?” She badgered, letting a button down fall back into the basket, collecting him into her arms. He hung his head onto her shoulder, back losing the tension its been holding as she rubbed it soothingly. He pulled back, Gramma gently wiping away the tears sticking to his cheeks.

“Rick, are you okay?” He nodded, sniffling.

“Some guy threw a scarecrow at me,” he confessed, rubbing the back of his hand underneath his nose, noticing his wrist was bare, missing the rasta bracelet.

She sighed, gazing off into the field.

“That would be Daryl. You’re not hurt, are ya?” Rick shook his head, casting his gaze down to his boots.

“He’s a real social butterfly,” Gramma explained, tone sarcastic. “But he’d never do anything to hurt ya. He’s just a little...standoffish.” Rick remained silent, temper still simmering in his belly. He grunted in response, mood too put off to give any sort of answer. ‘This guy could be a fucking alien and I wouldn’t give a shit if he’s standoffish. He’s an asshole,’ he fumed, bending down for a shirt out of the basket and a couple of clothes pins, joining Gramma with her chores.


	2. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anger, dinner, and a murder mystery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayyy chapter 2 yall. I've been busy moving back into my dorm but honestly that has nothing to do with why it took forever to update this, I'm just a dumb fuck with the attention span of a stale piece of bread.
> 
> Sorry for misspellings, im a dyslexic asshole

The air cool down considerably throughout the rest of the day, setting a chill into Rick’s bones. 

His knees were planted in the cold soil of the garden, gloved hands raking through dirt, examining each pumpkin to find the perfect one. Gramma was doing the same just down the row, plucking an especially round one from the foliage, holding it up for inspection.

“What d’ya think Rick? Looks good?” she called, giving it a little spin to examine further. He used his hand as a visor, protecting his eyes from the sunset, judging the quality of Gramma’s pick.

“Looks good Gramma!” He approved, turning back to his own hunt, checking out nearly every one his side of the garden, all of them being either too big, lopsided, covered in bugs, or too green. 

‘Never remember choosing a pumpkin being this goddamn difficult.’ 

The deep rumble of the Dodge grabbed his attention, watching Grampa slowly drive out of the field with bundles of corn stalks rolled up in the bed. Trailing behind the truck was that asshole that knocked him down, picking up any stalks fallen off. 

The sight of him standing there boiled his blood. His jaw clenched, gritting his teeth to keep himself from doing something rash. Vines clutched in an iron fist, Rick ripped himself away from the garden, picking up the first pumpkin he managed to grab. It was rather small and completely green on one side, but just seeing that asshole in front of him...

He stood a bit too quickly, garnering the attention of Daryl, alerted by the sudden movement.

Their gazes locked in a death match, palpable static in their stare down. Rick’s eyes narrowed in contempt, fire in his gaze only growing hotter with fury.

Daryl scoffed and rolled his eyes, turning back to his work.

Rick stood there, cheeks going red in outrage. 

‘This ass hat thinks he’s better than me!’ Rick grit out a growl between heaving breaths. What he wouldn’t give to be able to just go over there and knock his lights out, bust in a tooth maybe, leave him crying like a baby. 

“C’mon Rick, just let it go,” Gramma’s voice was suddenly beside him, startling him out of his fantasies of violence. She guided him by the shoulder to turn away.

“You saw him, he was staring me down too! Gramma he’s baiting me, trying to get me in trouble!” Rick was nearly hysterical, hissing his words to keep Daryl from overhearing. It’s either a hiss or a shout, he couldn’t possibly manage an inside voice. She nodded in understand.

“I know he is Ricky, but can I count on you to just be the bigger person? If you don’t give him a reaction, he’ll leave you alone,” she promised. Rick shrugged her hand from his shoulder, shaking his head.

“But why me? He’s older, isn’t he? He should be the mature one. He’s the one that started all this in the first place! I was just minding my own business, and he just...ugh!” Rick slammed his hands down on his thighs in frustration.

“I know Rick, he’s not the best at first impressions. It took a lot of time for him to even warm up to us, but he’s just...different,” she accentuated different with a vague hand motion.

“I can appreciate that he’s different, but he’s an asshole and I don’t like him.” She smacked the back of his head.

“Watch your mouth Rick Grimes. And if you can’t get along with him, then just avoid him. Ignore him if you gotta, but I won’t tolerate fighting between you two,” she demanded, her voice final. He grit his teeth again, nodding in compliance.

‘Tell him that.’

 

They made their way back to the house, wind kicking up then dying down, ruffling his curls. Autumns on the farm were always so beautiful, the way the towering aspens bordering the farm turn chartreuse, leaves flickering to silver in the breeze, blanketing the surrounding ground in their brilliance. 

Sunsets were especially stunning, with the field facing the west and all. The way the sun sunk beneath the crops, providing them with a glow, sky turning all sorts of purples and oranges, stars peeking out in the darkest hues. The best place to watch the sunsets was from the hayloft of the old barn near the northwestern corner of the field. Rick would just sit there in the window to be alone as a kid, kicking his feet over the edge and just watching the sun set lower and lower until all that was left was navy.

His grandparents never raised livestock so the barn was always left alone, the only use it ever got was when they would host their annual halloween party, inviting over their neighbors and old friends, all of their kids and grand kids tagging along with them.

That was the absolute best time, sitting on Gramma’s lap after playing with all the kids he’d become fast friends with, ugly halloween sweater covered in mysterious grime and stains from the “haunted house” which was just some teenagers dressed in masks running around and scaring the kids until they fell in the dirt. Looking back now, it seemed a bit deranged to let fifteen year olds chase children until they cried, but as a kid, it was the most fun he’d ever had. After falling asleep in Gramma’s lap, he’d wake up tucked into bed.

Autumns were the best.

They set their pumpkins on the front porch steps, two having already been placed there, Grampa’s and Daryl’s if he had to guess. Rick took a step back and stood straight, cocking his head to a slight degree.

“It don’t look that bad, I guess,” he mused, his choice no longer looking to small nor too green.

“Ya picked good, Rick,” Gramma agreed, making her way up the steps to the front door. 

A strange glint of light in the cascading maple next to the house caught his eye, peeking his interest. 

The source was from a glass jar hanging from a rope, swaying in the breeze. On closer inspection, that glass jar was only one of many, maybe ten or so, all filled near half was with water.

“What are those,” he inquired, pointing up at the tree. Gramma sighed, shaking her head.

“Oh those have been there a while. Merle strung those up a few years back, just never got around to taking them down, I suppose.” Rick wasn’t positive who Merle was, but assumed he must be that other Dixon brother she had spoken so highly of.

To get the idea to string jars full of water up in a tree, that guy must be just as crazy as his little brother.

 

Gramma put Rick to work in the kitchen, employing him to be her assistant. Peeling the potatoes, kneading the dough for the biscuits, cutting up the green beans, ripping up bacon into little bits. She wanted to give him a big homecoming dinner, celebration for her ‘Little Ricky’ finally coming back to the farm, and she was pulling all the stops.

By the end of all the hard work, the product compared to christmas. 

The actual act of eating dinner together, however, was anything but the friendly and jovial atmosphere one would expect out of a Christmas dinner, or even just a regular one.

 

Rick sat rigid in his chair, back hunched and shoulders taught, holding his fork in a steel fist. Daryl on the other hand sat across him, lounging back in his chair, enjoying his glass of homemade apple juice and the conversation between Gramma and Grampa, not a care in the world. 

His attitude, acting like Rick wasn’t even there, like he’d done nothing wrong, like everything was totally okay, grated on every single nerve Rick had in his entire body and then some. 

‘Stupid dirty haired bitch.’ Rick would have loved to say it out loud, right to his face. He would have loved to see his reaction to it, Rick insulting him right in front of everyone. He figured that would go down one of three ways: 

1\. Daryl would sit there speechless and in a state of complete shock, unable to reply.

2\. Daryl would in fact be able to reply, and would do so by making Rick choke on his teeth.

3\. Immediate death way of Gramma.

He figured scenario number two would be the most feasible to happen may he have such an outburst, given how mean he already knew Daryl was and by the size of his hands, he’d have no problem beating Rick half to death.

It’s not like he didn’t have the nerve to stand up to Daryl, he just didn’t wanna disappoint Gramma like that. He said he’d try his best not to cause conflict and he’d do his best, even if Daryl was a fire breathing serpent from hell. Rick wouldn’t stoop to his childish level.

 

Doing the dishes turned out to be the best part of the night for him, as it didn’t require him to be in the same vicinity of the Dirty Haired Bitch, as he’d taken to calling Daryl. Just the guys name alone made his toes curl.

Gramma handed him a wet plate to dry, engaging him in idle conversation.

“Thank you for keeping it together over dinner Rick, I know it wasn’t easy. It means a lot.” She bumped his shoulder, giving another plate to dry. He shrugged.

“I’ll admit, I did think about strangling him more than once,” he confessed, placing the plate in the cupboard above him.

“But you didn’t.” He shrugged.

“So, does he live here or something?” He’d been wondering about the Dirty Haired Bitch all day, on what his whole deal was, so now it as good a time as any to finally piece him together.

“Yup, in that old shed at the southeast corner of the field. Grampa and Merle fixed it up when he was still the farmhand and when he left, Daryl moved in when he was fifteen,” she explained, passing him a wooden spoon.

“So how long has he been here for?”

“Just over three years. Been a big help that boy. A real sweetheart too.” That caused Rick to bark out a laugh. ‘Believe that when I see it.’

“He is, just real deep down,” she smiled.

“Well when he’s a sweetheart not so deep down, then I’ll entertain him, but for right now, I’ll just keep my distance.” She rolled her eyes at her grandson, changing the subject.

“Are you gettin’ excited about the halloween party Rick? You used to love them when you were little.” His heart swelled at the mention of the party.

“Of course! Is Aaron and Stephen around still? They came every year and I haven’t seen them since last time I was here,” he inquired. Aaron and Stephen were the grandsons of Butch and Faye, long time friends of his grandparents. Every year they would show up and they’d recruit all the other kids into exploring the darkest parts of the corn field in search of ghosts and such. 

She sighed.

“No, they haven’t come for a few years. Neither have Luke, Richie, Genie, Alex, or really anybody. Mostly just your aunts, uncles, and cousins. Actually, this is the last year were having a party.” That took him by surprise, the fact struggling to set in. Gramma and Grampa’s halloween party was always huge, everyone in their contact book showing up. How could people just not show up? She continued. 

“There was… an accident three years ago, and since then, people don’t show up like they used to.” She didn’t look him in the eye as she explained, eyes gazing down into the water. It was on the tip of his tongue to inquire further, but the hesitation before ‘an accident’ and the way she refused to look at him stopped him. Perhaps it wasn’t his business.

The pair of strong arms wrapping around Gramma’s shoulders startled them both from their heavy conversation. She seemed to instantly forget what was troubling her mind, laughing and patting Daryl’s shoulder.

“I’m heading out Gramma, I’ll see ya t’mrrow,” he promised, kissing her cheek sweetly.

“Okay, you don’t stay up all night, you hear me?” She scolded, getting a smirk out of the boy.

“No problem.” With one last kiss, he released her, taking the extra step to bodily shove Rick against the sink as he passed by.

Rick’s grip on the knife in his hand tightened. ‘Just one swing,’ he bargained with his better judgement. Deciding a less lethal approach to Daryl’s abrasiveness was the better way to go, Rick straightened himself and glared Daryl in the eye.

“Yeah Daryl, no staying up all night,” he snarked. The squaring of Daryl’s massive shoulders and cut of his eye shook Rick to the core, figuring maybe he should’ve just let it go. He shrunk himself closer to Gramma, looking to her for protection from the serious bodily harm Daryl was looking to inflict.

She sighed and held her grandson close, rubbing a safe hand up his back.

“C’mon Daryl, pick on someone your own size,” she chided, earning a second smirk from the farmhand.

He made his exit after that, leaving Rick and Gramma to finish their dishes.

“A word of advice Ricky, next time you mouth off to someone bigger than you… just don’t.”

 

After a long relaxing shower and his grandparents headed to bed, Rick finally got around to unpacking his bags. He didn’t bother to properly fold any of his clothes, opting to just shove them into the dresser in fistfuls. ‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’

Most of what he brought was clothes, a couple of hoodies, a pair of gray Adidas training shoes to substitute his warmer boots, a Wisconsin Badgers baseball hat Shane got him and some other miscellaneous items of clothing.

Nearing the bottom of his second suitcase, Rick feels something that didn’t feel like anything he’d packed. 

It’s a little box no bigger than a deck of cards, red and white with little gold lion creatures on it.

He remembered now. He’d swiped this box of cigarettes out of his mom’s purse when he was twelve or so, going through a frustrated rebellious phase. Rick shook his head at just how dumb he’d been as a kid, tossing the pack back into his suitcase.

He hadn’t even smoked any of them when he stole them. He got too scared of getting caught, he hid them away in his old suitcase and forgot them there for all this time.

Rick finished up unpacking his bags around one AM, eyes droopy and body exhausted from the events of the long day. He crawled into bed, curling up on his side with the Badgers hat clenched in a fist, filling the spot his lost bracelet left.

With the warm covers, the gentle breeze filtering in through the window, and the link to his best friend firm in his hand, Rick was out in no time. Well, he would have been is it weren’t for the fighting raccoons screaming out in the field. 

 

The morning came softly to Rick, waking him slowly and with ease, songs of sparrows rousing him from his deep sleep, the first real sleep he’s gotten in years.

The bedside clock read 10:47 AM in red numbers.

“Shit,” he mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. No doubt he missed breakfast, but on the bright side, he wouldn’t have to tolerate that Dirty Haired Bitch glaring at him across the table.

Getting dressed, he chose blue jeans, a plain gray t-shirt, and the Badgers hat, strolling out to the kitchen where he could hear Gramma milling around. She turned at the sound of him entering the room, smiling at her grandson.

“You slept late.” He nodded, sitting at the table as she fixed him a bowl of cereal.

“Didn’t mean to.” She ruffled him hair, setting his breakfast in front of him.

“I know, you deserved some good sleep though. Maybe after you’re done eating, you can go and play with the dogs for awhile, Lord knows they missed you.” He agreed enthusiastically, finishing up his cheerios as quick as he could without choking.

 

The air was crisp and cold, turning his cheeks pink in the wind, but all the running kept him warm enough, chasing the dogs all down the backyard, kicking up fallen amber leaves in their wake. They barked and jumped at Rick, him leading them around in circles, shouting to keep their attention.

The trio made their way along the skirt of the field, following the fence to nowhere in particular, enjoying the late morning sunshine. The fence was barbed wire, but it’s been there since before his grandparents owned in, when the farmer there had been raising cows, so the barbs were completely weathered away and now just worked to keep the dogs in and wild animals out.

Buddy bolted out in front of him, barking wildly and growling at something in the tall grass at the base of a fence post.

“Buddy, come here!” Rick shouted, jogging up next to the dog, Ripley following closely. When he reached Buddy, the dog was relentless, snapping and pacing, acting in such a way Rick had never seen him do.

“Come on, back up,” he demanded, pulling the dog back by his collar, gasping at the sight at the fence post.

A raccoon lay lifeless, or what was left of a raccoon, body ripped open, entrails strewn through the wire fence and blood bathing the surrounding grass.

“Oh God,” he shuddered, the sight turning his stomach, backing away slowly, corralling the dogs behind him.

The poor thing’s head was crushed in as well, brains splattered against the wood and eyeball hanging by no more than a bloody string. It was a horrifically gory sight, one that shook him to the core.

“Goddamn coons makin’ a fuckin mess again!” The sudden shouting made Rick jump half way out of his skin, shrieking and flailing his arms in self-defense.

Daryl stood behind him, shaking his head at the sight before him, not caring so much about the gore but more about the extra work it would cause him.

“What the hell are you doing over here?” Rick interrogated, composing himself promptly. Daryl shrugged, rearing back and launching the stick he’d held as far down the path as he could, dogs clearing out to chase it.

“Figured since you was so scared from a stupid scarecrow, a stick up the leg might make you piss yerself,” he explained, shoving past Rick to get closer to the mess.

Rick stood there, mouth like a suffocating fish, unable to compose a proper sentence. ‘The fuck is wrong with this guy?!’ his mind screamed, but too dumbfounded to express the thought verbally.

“You asshole!” Was all Rick could manage to say, though his mind had a few other choice words for Daryl to hear.

“Sue me,” he grumped, leaning in closer to assess the situation, reaching a gloved hand to swivel the crushed head to see the extent of the damage.

“Hmph,” Daryl huffed, poking a finger around in the stomach, moving the hanging strips of flesh and guts around.

“Something wrong?” Rick inquired, hovering over Daryl’s back to see whatever it is that he’s doing. 

“You know what did this?” He gazed over his shoulder at the younger boy, squinting in the sunlight. Rick shook his head.

“Last night before I fell asleep, I heard a coupla raccoons fighting, must have been this,” he figured, shifting his weight to his other foot, crossing his arms against a particularly brisk wind. Daryl shook his head in disagreement.

“Nah, ain’t no coon did this. Whatever did this had to be at least as big as a coyote, but coyote woulda eaten it. This guy was just ripped up.” He stood, hands on his hips, taking a step back. After a moment of surveying and deliberating, Daryl pointed a finger towards the grass.

“There. Ya see those prints? This coon come up from over there, then gets attacked here, but them prints is clean. No struggle. He got snuck up on and killed quick n’ easy. Then whatever killed it go up over the fence, then goes off in the grass. Ends there.” Rick takes it all in, somewhat impressed by Daryl’s observation and him getting all that information from this little piece of evidence.

“Where’d it go?” The older boy shrugs.

“Dunno, trail ends night there. Whatever it was just… ends there. No more tracks. Gone.” Rick gazes at him inquisitively, eyes meeting.

“Gone. So a bird did it maybe? Flew away?” Daryl shakes his head, disagreeing.

“I don’t think so. It came up on the ground, bird woulda swooped down and snatched it up,” he explained, using hand movements to animate what he was saying. 

“Okay, so what woulda stalked this raccoon from the ground, killed it, and then not eaten it?” Daryl sighed, straightening his back, gazing out into the open field on the other side of the barbed wire fence.

“Dunno. That’s a real head scratcher,” he reckoned, sliding the dirty gloves from his hands and smacked them against his thigh, shaking the dust and grime from them. Rick scoffed as Daryl walked away, back into the crops, leaving him alone with the corpse.

“Bitch,” Rick grumbled, making his way back to the house, but a last minute thought made him turn to the field, shouting in to particular direction.

“Hey Daryl? Have you seen my bracelet anywhere?” But there was no reply, just the rustling of the empty crops in the wind.


	3. Something In The Field

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick tries his hand at petty revenge and has a close encounter of the second kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna make this chapter a lot longer but nah I don't think so. Enjoy

The attic was a strange place.

It wasn’t scary, or dark, or filled with spiders. No, it was just strange.

The entrance was a regular door off to the side in the master bedroom, hidden behind some blue totes Gramma had stacked in front of it, surely meaning to do something with them but never quite getting around to it.

Once Rick opens the door, he is met with a tall ledge that he must hoist himself up onto, knees meeting scratchy carpet that covered the rickety floor. The room was small and stuffy, particles of disturbed dust floating in the golden sunlight coming through a hexagon window located at the far end.

The room wasn’t tall at all, so Rick crouched and crawled to get to what he was looking for: a damp cardboard box labeled ‘halloween’ somewhere in the far back.

He gripped around the base of the dilapidated box to pull it out, fearing the box would tear open if he tried from the top, giving a hard tug, failing to unwedge it, but causing another box from above to topple over, contents spilling all around and on top of him.

“Goddammit,” Rick huffed, cursing at how perfectly the boxes were stacked together, like a game of tetris.

He tipped the fallen box back upright, checking the sides for a label. In big letters, the box read ‘KIDS TOYS.’

Scattered around him in an uneven semi-circle were relics of his missed childhood surrounded him, some broken, some missing parts, and some perfectly intact. It was like being surrounded by ghosts, he couldn’t help but feel.

Timidly, Rick picked up a disposable camera, still loaded with 14 snapshots. This had belonged to his cousin Robbie, probably left here by mistake and thrown into this box to be forgotten forever.

A Harry Potter book, giraffe beanie baby, broken night light, purple toy sunglasses with a missing right lense, and many other pieces of junk spilled around him, some of them having more value to him than other, particularly a couple of walkie talkies, black and bulky.

These had belonged to him, his dad gifting him these for Christmas three years before things got bad. Being an only child, he get a small mountain of gifts for occasions like Christmas and his birthday, but that also meant he didn’t always have someone to share them with. His parents worked and had no time for child games.

Rick doesn’t have time either.

He collects everything into the rickety box and sits it back up, sliding it to the side of and out of the way of the halloween boxes. 

But with everything packed in so tightly together, another box, black and inconspicuous, toppled down, lip jarring open.

Rick groaned dramatically, throwing his head back towards the ceiling.

“Stupid fucking…” he grumbled, slamming his hand over the lid and pulling the box in front of him to fix it.

Some of the contents were visible to him, a piece of crumpled paper sticking out from the inside and on top of that was what looked to be a polaroid picture. Curiosity peaking and annoyance ebbing, Rick opened up the lid and picked through the contents.

There wasn’t much in there, but some pieces of paper, seemingly torn from a book. Tilting the mysterious paper into the orange sunlight, he tried reading what was written, but they were words in a language he didn’t understand in the slightest. Latin perhaps.

Setting that one aside, he forgoed reading any of the other papers, figuring they too were either written in Latin, or of no interest to him. 

The polaroids were also not incredibly interesting, the content either being too dark to see anything or totally blurry and overexposed. ‘Damn,’ Rick thought, ‘whoever took these had no idea what they were doing.’

Rick shrugged, setting the pictures back into the box, coming to the final piece of content, another page but this one was of a different quality paper than the other, a little glossier and not so dingey. This was was in English this time.

_Contending with the Powers of Hell_

_When devoting oneself to understand and interacting with powers not of this world, it is important to remember how powerful these forces are, and that we as humans are not meant to control them. ___

__Rick wasn’t intrigued, sighing and tossing the paper aside into the box and shoving it back where it belonged._ _

__“Stupid halloween shit,” he mumbled, finally managing to wiggle the heavy tote from where it was buried beneath a hundred pounds of other holiday decorations._ _

__He climbed out of the creepy attic, cursing its lack of legroom._ _

__

__“Ricky, be careful you don’t fall,” Gramma huffed as he stood on a wooden chair from the dining table, stretching onto his tiptoes to reach a nail sticking out from the wall, wrapping a long string of orange fairy lights around it._ _

__“Don’t worry Gramma, I got it. You just make sure you get them bats strung up good,” he replied, stretching to the side to reach the next nail, close to finishing the archway leading from the kitchen to the living room._ _

__She laughed from where she stood from her own chair, turning her attention to her grandson._ _

__“Ricky, next time I need advice from a decorating amatuar, I’ll ask your Grampa, but until then, I think it’s best you let the expert call the shots, okay?” He stood there in shock, unable to formulate a response._ _

__“Goddamn Gramma,” he whispered under his breath, turning back to his lights and nails and pointedly avoiding eye contact with her._ _

__After completing his lights and string up the ones on the archway leading from the kitchen to the dining room, he steps back to observe the work done._ _

__It sure looked spooky, bats hanging from tiny hooks in the ceiling, orange and purple lights framing the arches and window above the sink, cutouts of witches above the stove, figurines of black cats on the window sill and so much more._ _

__“It’s nice having a helper this year. It usually takes double the time to finish everything,” she said, not looking down at him but keeping concentrated on her work._ _

__“Well, I was glad to help, even though I’m just an amatuer,” he sassed, leaning his back to rest against the counter, crossing his arms in front of his chest._ _

__“Well, maybe with a little practice, you could make your way up to novice instead of amatuer. It’s a step up.” He shook his head, taken back by her remarks._ _

__“Yeah maybe. Oh hey, I was out earlier with the dogs and we found a raccoon that had been all ripped up. Daryl couldn’t figure out what the tracks were, said he’d never seen anything like ‘em before,” he recalled the incident, flashes of bloody grass still fresh in his mind._ _

__“Oh yeah, well y’know livin’ out in the country like we do, sometimes coyotes and things get in. Just a part of living out here,” she reasoned._ _

__“Nah, Daryl said a coyote woulda eaten it, but it was just ripped up,” he informed her, his attention lazily beginning to shift from their conversation._ _

__“Since when do you take Daryl’s word for anything? What were you two doing out there anyway?” Her tone was somewhat accusing. He shook his head, holding in a laugh._ _

__“Nothing important, I was just walking with the dogs and they started barking and we both came to check on ‘em, nothing more nothing less. I’d rather kiss a toilet seat then have to stand next to him again.” She ‘mhm’ed, not sounding convinced. He huffed, wishing she’d drop the subject._ _

__“It was probably just some sort of animal that got the raccoon, I think sometimes Daryl just likes to talk,” she reasoned, continuing on with her theory of what could have viciously attacked that raccoon, but Rick’s mind was somewhere else entirely._ _

__Daryl._ _

__That Dirty Haired Bitch had to pay for his actions. Rick, knowing that if he just let Daryl get away with bullying him, he’d never stop, formulated a plan to get him back and show him he wouldn’t take the abuse, and that plan just so happened to require one of those rubber bats._ _

__While Gramma was distracted by whatever killed the raccoon, Rick took the opportunity to casually lean forward and swipe a bat from the bucket, stuffing it in his pocket, completely unbeknownst to her._ _

__And now, he would just need to wait._ _

__

__His moment came around six that night when Grampa and Daryl were out near the barn at the farthest end of the field._ _

__Moving swiftly, he kept a sharp eye out for any sign of the Dirty Haired Bitch, not even wanting to consider what would happen if he got caught and the hell he would pay for this._ _

__The shed door was unlocked (if it even had a lock), and Rick took a final glance around to make sure he wasn’t followed or found out before slipping inside._ _

__It wasn’t like he expected at all. The way Daryl carries himself, hair a mess and constantly covered in a fine layer of dirt, he figured his room would reflect that, but that’s not the case._ _

__The floor was spotless, void of any dirty clothes or trash he’d been expecting. The bed pushed against the far wall was neatly made, the rickety table with a couple equally unsound chairs was also kempt with only a glass ashtray in the center. It smelled nice too, like quality cologne, a very masculine feel to it._ _

__It wasn’t a pig pen, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t some stuff in there that chilled him to the core._ _

__Leaning up against the foot of the bed was a big crossbow, looking like it had been well used, bolts resting on the wrack mottled with blood and remains of kills, knives the size of Rick’s entire forearm were thrust into the wall, bloody gloves resting in the seat of a chair and laid across the backrest of that same chair was a vest looking like it belonged to a member of the Hell’s Angels._ _

__These things all but confirm that Daryl was a bad guy, no matter how much of a sweetheart Gramma was being conned into believing he was._ _

__“Probably him that killed that goddamn raccoon,” Rick figured, second guessing his choice to get Daryl back. Maybe he could just let this all slide? Taking one of those giant knives to the face didn’t sound too good._ _

__Rick took a big, defiant breath, committing to his plan. No way he would try to hurt Rick with Gramma and Grampa around._ _

__He took five big strides up to the neatly made bed, gently pulling the comforter back enough to slip the rubber bat underneath and leave the rest of the covers undisturbed, planting the bat right where he wanted it and resetting the blanket just as it had been, like it was never tampered with._ _

__A self satisfied smirk spread across Rick’s face in anticipation for the final stage of his plan._ _

__He spent no extra time waiting around. He made his way back home with plenty of time before dinner._ _

__

__Gramma had insisted on everyone watching a movie together as a family, so Rick was forced to sit still for nearly two hours, anticipation eating him alive as he struggled to keep up with whatever was on the tv. Some dumb movie about storm chasers with the guys from Aliens. He didn’t doubt it was a good movie, but all he wanted was for Daryl to leave so his plan would finally fall into motion._ _

__It was absolute torture to have to sit there and act like something wasn’t up his sleeve._ _

__He glanced over from his seat to where Gramma sat on the couch, big farmhand curled up under her arm like a child would._ _

__He scoffed, the sound drowned out by the action happening on screen._ _

__‘Never pegged him as a Gramma’s boy,’ he mused. ‘Why don’t ya suck on your thumb too, you big baby,’ he grumped. It ate away at him, the way he could see right through Daryl’s sweetheart act for the raging asshole he is. But there he is, acting all cute and suckering them into believing he isn’t literally evil incarnate._ _

__‘Oh I can’t wait until you finally get what’s comin’ to ya,’ he menaced, wringing his hands together in anticipation. He turned his attention back to the movie, counting down the minutes until it finally ended._ _

__

__Daryl left at nearly 10:30 that night, saying his goodnights to Gramma and Grampa and the dogs, who seem to love him more than Rick. Daryl never acknowledged him, which was fine honestly._ _

__Rick waited a few minutes to slip out the back door, careful not to make any sounds to alert Daryl to his presence, knowing the guys got hunting and tracking skills and can probably distinguish footsteps from the white noise of the wind in the crops. So he kept a fair distance, walking heel to toe, knees bent, seeing in a movie somewhere that it was the quietest way to walk._ _

__He’d gone the entire way undetected, feeling pride at outsmarting the supposed expert. ‘Knew he was an idiot,’ Rick mentally boasted, watching as Daryl disappeared inside._ _

__Rick swung to the side of the shed, kneeling down in the tall weeds, giving him cover if Daryl came running out in terror. A hole in the wood was perfectly eye level with his crouched position, giving him a perfect view of the inside of the shed._ _

__So, we waited with bated breath until Daryl would get into bed._ _

__

__The whole process of watching Daryl sit in a chair and chainsmoke for over an hour was less than exciting, the most stirring moment of that hour was when he pulled out his cell phone, an old model android and called someone._ _

__By the sounds of the conversation, it had to have been his brother._ _

__“When you comin’ to visit? Borin’ as hell without you around, gettin’ me inta trouble,” he grumbled, absently balancing a pocket knife on its point, digging it into the wood until it stood without support. The second half of the conversation was lost on Rick._ _

__“Yeah, they missin’ you too, ‘specially Gramma. She wants you to come down an’ hang out,” he explained to his brother, voice soft and maybe even a little melancholy. After a few moments of silence, a little smirk spread across Daryl’s lips._ _

__“Yeah, he just got here the other night, real city boy,” he laughed, tilting his head for his bangs to slide out of his eyes. Rick’s heart jumped, knowing he was being discussed, straining with no avail to hear what the other person was saying._ _

__“Nah, I don’ think he likes me too much,” he grinned, folding the knife up and dropping it in the ashtray. ‘Goddamn right I don’t like you,’ his temper flared._ _

__Something being said on the other end of the line caused Daryl face to twist in annoyance, scoffing at what was asked._ _

__“Don’ know, above average I guess? Since when you been so concerned?” Where they still talking about him? He scoffed again, shaking his head._ _

__“Stop,” he pleaded, holding his forehead in his free hand. The conversation shifted after that, the two discussing things Rick had no idea about, people and events unrelated to anyone he knew. He’d lost interest again, the briskness of the air coming to the forefront of his mind. ‘How the hell could I forget to bring a jacket?’_ _

__It was no more than forty degrees, and with the wind added into the mix, it felt much lower. ‘Hurry up already,’ he begged, wrapping his arms around himself to conserve what little warmth he could. Shivers rocked his body._ _

__“Alright, I’ll call ya t’morrow night then, go have fun,” the conversation wrapped up, Daryl swiping the circle to ‘end,’ dropping the phone down on the table and leaning back into the chair, creaking loudly under his weight._ _

__He sit there for a moment, eyes drooping shut and cigarette burning down to its last drag between his relaxed fingers. He took a deep breath, eyes sluggishly opening up to stare absently at the ceiling, head lolling to the side to gaze at the smoke flowing in the air currents. He brought it to his lips, sucking down to the filter, stubbing the butt out in the glass tray._ _

__Streams of gray smoke cascaded from Daryl’s lips, drifting down across his chest before diffusing away into the empty space. He kicked off his dusty boots, leaving them wherever they landed, moving his hands to ruck up his dirty t-shirt, fingers toying with his belt buckle, sliding the leather from the loops of his light blue jeans, tossing it to where his boots sat, leaning his body forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging limp between his legs._ _

__He stood after a few moments of resting like that, rolling his shoulder, resulting in a loud pop on both sides. His fingers hooked under the hem of his shirt, bunching the fabric up as it slid up and over, tossing the shirt somewhere near the foot of his bed._ _

__The air suddenly didn’t feel so cold, his cheeks heating up._ _

__“Wow,” Rick breathed, fingers absently coming to graze against the rough surface of the wood, steadying him to keep from falling over._ _

__Daryl’s shoulder’s were like nothing Rick had ever seen, every movement stretching the chorded muscle beneath tan skin, muscle continuing down to big biceps and toned chest, flexing with each shift. Rick also noticed a tattoo on the inside of Daryl’s right arm, but was unable to make out what it was._ _

__He raised his arms above his head, working the tired muscle in his back, striding casually over to his bed._ _

__Rick grinned big, palms sweating in anticipation. ‘C’mon, hurry up,’ his impatience boiling over._ _

__Daryl took his time, digging through the drawer of his night stand, pulling out a crumpled pack of Newports, sticking a half smoked cigarette between his lips and lighting up, his smoke count for the night reaching six._ _

__‘What a chimney,’ Rick thought as Daryl ashed into another tray, closing the drawer with a hip, reaching out to grasp as the covers, pulling them back._ _

__He did a double take as something black flung out from the blankets, landing at the foot of the bed. He took the cigarette from his lips to hold it between his left fingers, lowering it slowly to recognize the shape as a bat._ _

__“Oh shit,” his voice was gentle, nearly kind as he assessed the situation, slowing moving in closer._ _

__“This ain’t the place fer you lil buddy,” he chided the animal, reaching out and tenderly slipping his hand underneath it to hold. Rick could hear him whisper a ‘what the fuck’ as it dawned on him that the bat was no more than a halloween decoration._ _

__Rick’s shoulders deflated, sighing in defeat and disappointment at his failure to properly exact revenge._ _

__Daryl turned the toy over in his hand, rubber wings flapping with each twist of his wrist. A sly grin spread across his lips, the reasoning behind the rubber bat in his bed slowly coming to make sense to him._ _

__“City boy,” he scoffed, strolling leisurely to the wall behind the chair he’d previously been sitting at, the wall with the giant knives sticking out of it. Daryl gripped the handle of a more moderately sized one, yanking it from its place stuck in the wood, holding the rubber toy up and jamming the blade through the body, pinning it._ _

__He turned around, that damn smirk still there, shaking his head at Rick stupid little practical joke, heading for the bed._ _

__Rick let his butt hit the cold hard ground, disheartened. This is what Grampa would call "gettin’ the wind knocked outta yer sails."_ _  
He picked himself up off the ground, turning back to the field for a long, cold walk of shame home.__

____‘Probably made things so much worse for myself,’ he figured, not wanting to even imagine what Daryl would have up his sleeve after this little stunt he just pulled. Would he rip off Rick’s fingernails one by one? Would he end up with one of those arrows in the ass? Maybe he’d be strangled in his sleep?_ _ _ _

____“It’s in God’s hands now,” he resigned himself, mentally preparing to be savagely murdered tomorrow at breakfast. Maybe if the Lord were truly merciful, Daryl would make it quick and painless. Not likely though._ _ _ _

____Nearing the halfway mark back to the house, there came a rustling just behind him, hidden in the crops, and then a low growl._ _ _ _

____‘Nope, I’m gonna die right now,’ he figured, accepting his bloody and likely brutal fate. He sighed, turning to face the music._ _ _ _

____“Okay Daryl, you caught me! It didn’t even work so just get me back tomorrow,” he demanded, not wanting to deal with Daryl’s shit right now._ _ _ _

____The rustling moved in closer to where he stood, the growling intensifying, sending a chill up his spine. He took a timid step back._ _ _ _

____“C’mon Daryl, quit being a dick,” he ordered, voice quivering. Something just didn’t feel right, something striking fear into his heart._ _ _ _

____The rustling was right next to him, the growling right in his ear, able to feel a hot breath against his face._ _ _ _

_____This ain't Daryl_ _ _ __

______He ran away as fast as his feet would carry him, never even looking back until he reached the safety of the house, heart hammering in his chest. He took a final second to cast a long gaze out to the field._ _ _ _ _ _

______Everything was eerily still, any traces of the cold breeze gone, all crickets silent._ _ _ _ _ _

______He threw open the back door and went straight to his room, locking the door behind him and drawing the curtains closed. He backed up until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed, kicking off his shoes and jeans, crawling under the shelter of the covers, eyes never leaving the window._ _ _ _ _ _


	4. Lifeguard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time since arriving, Rick is afraid of Daryl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo waddup? Thank to everyone who reads, watching them hits rack up means so much to me, and please for the love of god COMMENT!! It makes me write faster and also help me see type-os and stuff like that
> 
> Also, i finally got around to listening to The Life Of Pablo all the way through and wow what an album

Breakfast at Gramma and Grampa Grimes’ house was like an event. 

Gramma put everything she had into it, starting before anyone even got up and ending up with enough food to feed a family of six with plenty left over. She had everything anyone could want: pancakes, toast, eggs, fruit, bacon, sausage, hash browns, peppers, orange juice, coffee, the whole shebang. Yeah, every meal was pretty big but nothing could hold a candle to breakfast.

She says it’s to get her “favorite guys” ready for their day of hard work, and that’s definitely true, but it’s also her favorite thing to do, make a ton of food and watch everyone eat it with such enthusiasm and thank her for it. It truly warms her heart.

And typically, Rick was the most enthusiastic of them all, plate stacked high with at least three of everything and wolfing it all down in record time, but today that wasn’t the case.

He sat in silence, staring down at his meager choosing of a plain pancake and buttered toast, only one bite taken out of either of them, glass still filled with juice. He had no appetite, only eating when prompted by Gramma.

His mind was just too distracted by the events of the previous nights. The rustling in the crops, the growling, the scorching breath. His body shuddered, the primal fear still as fresh now as it had been then. He wrapped his arms around his midsection, curling further into himself.

His mind was heavy with uncertainty, a hundred questions weighing on him, but the heaviest one being ‘what the hell was it?’

The more he tried to make sense of it, the more confusing it became. 

‘Coyote maybe? No, coyotes don’t make that sort of sound, that horrible growling.’

‘Shit, maybe it was aliens? No way, little green men in space suits coming to the Grimes’ farm just to fuck up my day? Unlikely, but a good last resort, I suppose?’

‘Bigfoot? Nah, that’s a west coast thing.’ His mind was running in circles of outlandish suggestions and immediate discredit. He shook his head, taking a sip from his glass of warm juice.

‘It had to have been Daryl! It’s sure a hell of a lot more likely than Bigfoot,’ he decided. ‘Besides, what’d I ever do to Bigfoot? Not a damn thing!’ He snuck a peek from under the brim of his Badgers hat, over to where Daryl sat, hair still messy from sleep, laughing and talking with Grampa.

He seemed especially cheerful this morning, and from what Rick’s observed about the guy, that’s unusual.

‘Reveling in self-satisfaction I see. Not one for being humble,’ Rick figured, sighing heavily, taking a small bite from his pancake, resigning himself to the fact that Daryl had won this round.

 

He managed to catch the moody farmhand alone after finishing dishes just as he was lighting up a post-breakfast cigarette, cupping his hand around the lighter to protect the fragile flame from the chilly autumn breeze, leaning back against the rail.

He spotted Rick exiting the back door, making no attempt to suppress a scoff, inhaling deep from his smoke, disheveled hair falling over his shoulders as he shook his head. Rick came to stand in front of him - at a safe distance - and crossed his arms securely in front of his chest, angrily tapping a toe against the stained wood of the back deck. He ducked his head down and away, gathering the courage to speak.

“You went too far last night asshole,” he announced, voice stern.

Daryl’s head cocked, lips curling in a sneer, sucking in another puff from his cigarette. Taking a moment for himself, he pushed himself away from the rail, back straightening and shoulders squaring to display his full height.

Rick’s knees buckled at the realization that Daryl was substantially taller than himself, and Gramma isn’t here to save his ass. ‘C’mon Rick, nows the time to grow a spine with this guy!’ Rick mirrored Daryl’s posture, trying to make his height of 5’6” as intimidating as he could.

“You talkin’ ta me, pussy?” His voice was serious and deep, taking a threatening step forward, but Rick held fast, refusing to back away.

“No, I’m talking to the other asshole standing there with a cigarette,” he snarked, heart hammering of both fear and pure suicidal adrenaline. 

“Ya tryina make me fuckin’ murder you?” He was now a mere breath away from Rick, standing toe to toe, sparks of tension flying in the limited space between them. 

“N-Not that I don’t fully believe you would end my life with your bare hands, I just came out here to tell you that you pulled a read dick move last night. Ya went too far gettin’ me back,” Rick fumed, managing to stutter only once.

Daryl’s seemed confused.

“The hell ya’ talkin’ ‘bout? Still haven’t figured out how I’s gettin’ ya back.” He leaned out of Rick’s space a bit, blowing a cloud of smoke off to the side, the wind carrying it away. Rick yelled out in frustration, balling his fists at his sides, voice raised.

“I know it was you! The bat didn’t work and you won, so quit lying and just man up and-” he was cut off by Daryl’s mood suddenly twisting from teasing nonchalance to insulted fury. He forced himself into Rick’s space, voice low and vicious, fist twisting in the collar of his jacket.

“Listen here pussy. I can handle you callin’ me an asshole, a bitch, or dirty, ‘m all them things, but I ain’t gonna let you stand here and say I won’t man up, so if you wanna keep all yer fuckin’ teeth, i suggest you shut yer fuckin’ mouth before I put yer ass in the ground,” he no more than growled the last threat, eyes locked with Rick’s, forcing the point across loud and clear. 

For the first time since knowing him, Rick was actually afraid of Daryl.

Rick nodded softly, fearing sudden movements might set him off even further. He remained there for a few moments longer before slowly leaning away, eyes still intensely fixed with Rick’s.

He finally turned away with a growl, flicking the cigarette filter off the deck, heading for the steps. Rick watched him leave, waiting until he made it off the stairs to trail him, meekly standing at the rail, calling to him, voice soft and uncertain.

“So...it wasn’t you that followed me home?” Daryl whirled around, shoulders still tense with anger.

“No Rick, it wasn’t fuckin’ me!” His voice was just as irate as it had been just moments ago.

“Well then who-”

“Piss off!” He shouted, stalking off to the field, leaving Rick with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

 

He spent the rest of his day inside, making a point to avoid everyone, especially the angry farmhand. It wasn’t too hard, seeing as he was really the only person who didn’t have a job and had all the time in the world to just be lazy and kick back.

But being lazy isn’t what he wanted to do.

He wanted to figure this out, get rid of the feeling of hot, menacing breath all over his body. The longer he sat still, the clearer the feeling became, skin crawling and everything feeling out of place. 

So he did what he could around the house: vacuuming, mopping, dusting, cleaning windows, feeding the dogs, whatever things he could find to keep himself occupied and mind off cryptids living in the corn field and homicidal field workers.

By the time he was done with miscellaneous chores and had alphabetized the CDs in the cupboards under the TV, it was hardly noon. So he opted for a bath, knowing Gramma kept a large selection of scented salts and maybe that’s all he needed, a nice bath to wash away the feeling of being stalked.

 

The water was nearly too hot to stand, but that’s just how Rick liked it, and with the addition of the sandalwood salts, it was the most comfortable and relaxed he’s felt since arriving at the farm. No fucking scarecrows, rubber bats, no Bigfoot stalking him home, and especially no dirty farmhand.

“Tch,” Rick shook his head, lolling to the side and reaching for his phone. He got no service all the way out here in the sticks, but his downloaded music still works just fine. He turned on an indie mix and let that go, absently closing his eyes and letting everything around him melt away, just the gentle hum of a piano.

But of course, soon enough his mind wandered to the fight. No matter what, he just couldn’t seem to shake it. 

The way Daryl got in his face and how his voice dripped venom. His spine shuddered. 

God, he hates to admit it, but Rick actually feels a little bad. The way Daryl’s mood just changed on a dime like that, how his shoulders hunched over, how his eyes narrowed and burned with fury. God, all because he said Daryl wasn’t manning up to playing dirty?

Rick shook his head.

“He’s just being a bitch,” he figured, changing the song to something soft, sinking his body down into the water, tired eyes slipping shut.

‘If it wasn’t Daryl then what was it?’ his mind wandered back again, running in the same continuous loop its been on all day, the same one that got his screamed at.

It possibly could have been something as simple as a coyote, but Rick just knew it wasn’t. No coyote could make him feel that uneasy, that frightened, that hunted. He shuddered, letting his head slip under the surface for a calming minute.

The warmth, the soft sound of Gregory Alan Isakov distorted by the water in his ears, the locked door all came together to create the perfect relaxing atmosphere. He sighed, exhale bubbling up to the surface. 

He was floating in the ocean, sky above him gray and calm, seagulls cawing and diving like bullets into the water, ricocheting off the surface with little fishes held in their beaks.

No, he was lying in a lake nestled in the center of a serene forest, summer cicadas and twittering of robins soothing his tense shoulders. The scent of wildflowers filled his lungs.

Or maybe he was at a beach in Georgia, waves rolling against the shore and sun shining on his golden tan. The lifeguard’s chest glistened with sweat, biceps rippling as they wrapped around him, holding him gently and with such care. All dark curls and big brown eyes, silver '22' necklace shining in the sunlight, just like his smile .

He hummed in content, settling on that last one. 

A sudden pounding on the door startled him, pulling him out of the lifeguard’s sturdy hold.

In a moment of blind panic, he inhaled before surfacing, water flooding his lungs. He sat up and doubled over, a wave splashing over the edge and onto the floor, Rick coughing and gasping to catch a breath.

“What?!” he croaked, placing a hand over his chest, unable to do anything else, still struggling to breathe.

Another round of pounding and a shaking of the doorknob, but not an attempt to enter.

“I’m naked and the door is locked,” he shouted, voice coming stronger now as he settled.

“Gramma wants you!” A gruff voice demanded. The voice of the angry farmhand.

Rick groaned, leaning back against the porcelain, holding a hand to his forehead.

“I’ll be out in a minute!” More of that damn incessand banging.

“Go away asshole!” He yelled, throwing a near empty bottle of soap at the door in a fit of anger, sinking his body down slowly as heavy footsteps retreated. “God, I can’t even get a fucking minute away from you,” he grumped, much quieter than his previous screaming.

 

After quickly drying and dressing, he made his way down to the garden where Gramma was kneeling in the dirt with a basket.

“What’s up, Gramma,” his voice was pleasant. She turned and smiled brightly at him.

“Oh hi Ricky, how you feeling today? You hardly ate at breakfast,” she questioned, turning back to the tall stalk of tomatoes but making it clear her attention was still on him.

“Yeah, just uh, didn’t sleep too good.” It wasn’t a lite, he didn’t sleep for shit, but he went no further to explain why.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that sweetie,” she mothered, plucking a small one from low on the stalk.

“Mhm. Well uh, did you need help with something?” She slid off her gloves and shook off the soil and gazed up at him, straw gardening hat doing little to shield her eyes from the blinding sun. She shook her head.

“No, nothing in particular.” He cocked his head.

“Daryl said you needed me. Came pounding on the door, nearly made me drown,” he informed her, not even feeling guilty that it felt like tattling.

“No, I never sent him.” He shook his head, biting the inside of his cheek and digging the toe of his boot into the loose dirt.

“God, that dick,” he gritted his teeth, placing balled up fists at his hips. She gasped, throwing the first thing she grabbed at him, which happened to be a dirty glove, leaving a dark print on his thigh where it smacked him. She stuck a stern finger in his direction.

“You watch your language Richard! We are a family of God,” she chastised. He hung his head in apology. 

“Sorry Gramma. It’s just, I’m ready to just go up to him and give him a black eye.” She laughed at him, loud and boasting. 

“No you ain’t! Rick, I love you but no offense, he’d destroy you in a fight. You ain’t giving no farm boy a black eye,” she shook her head, turning back to her tomatoes.

“I could too! He might be bigger but I bet him faster! I could beat him,” he finalized. She gave him a quick once over, flicking wise eyes over his form. She shook her head.

“No you couldn’t. Too skinny.” He scoffed.

“I’m not skinny, I’m lean muscle,” he corrected her, highly offended. “You better watch yourself old lady, I got half a mind to throw you in an old folks home,” he sassed, earning the second glove thrown at him.

“Oh yeah, then who's gonna save your sorry hide when Daryl beats you black and blue?” He floundered for a response. “Shut up and make yourself useful,” she ordered, pushing a basket of tomatoes into his arms.

 

Dinner was tense as usual but thankfully didn’t last too awfully long, and nobody gave anyone a black eye, much to Rick’s disappointment, but if Gramma had been right, much to his relief.

Rick went directly to his room afterwards, flopping down face first on the bed. He’d eaten far too much, making up for his megar breakfast. But he couldn’t help himself! Gramma had made pot roast with vegetables from the garden with mashed potatoes and gravy and once he’d finished his first plate, he dove right into the second, and then made his way through the third. He’d gotten looks from everyone, but it was easy to ignore it as long as he got more of those potatoes. 

‘Gonna have to start working out if Gramma keeps cooking like this.’ He smiled, rolling over onto his back, smacking his hand down on his phone lying by his side, too overfed to be concerned with breaking it.

He brought it up to see the screen, browsing his playlists, settling on Hozier to play absently, tossing his phone back down on the bed. He lay there, hands resting on his stomach, staring blankly at the ceiling. 

His mind eventually wandered to Shane as it always seemed to do during quiet moments.

What was Shane doing? Did he miss Rick? Did he also lay in bed and think about him? Did he stare at his phone and wait for a notification that Rick was sending a text? God how he wished he’d just find a single spot on the entire farm that gave him at least one bar!

Without sitting up, Rick shucked his restrictive jeans, worn blues tumbling down to the floor with a muted ‘whump.’ Next were his socks, getting the same treatment as his pants, unceremoniously discarded onto the floor.

Maybe he’d use the house phone to call and invite Shane over for a weekend. Rick wondered if maybe he could even sweet talk Shane’s dad into letting him skip school some Friday and come to Virginia for a three day trip.

The idea of taking advantage of Mr. Walsh’s soft spot for him seemed unethical, but what was even worse than that was having to live with the idea that he wouldn’t get to see Shane for such a long time when getting him to come down and visit was so simple. If he couldn’t get the phone service to contact Shane to tell him all about everything, then he’d just have to come here so he can gossip to him in person.

Sure, he considered just using the landline, but their conversations could go on for hours a night, and it seemed even more unethical to run up his elderly grandparents phone bill then it did to manipulate Mr. Walsh.

‘God, I’m only here for a few days and I’m already wanting to go back home.’ He let his eyes slip shut, turning on his side to curl deep into the warm covers, reaching out to switch off the side lamp, the room ebbing away until it was just him and his thoughts once again.

Going home means going back to _them_ , and that’s not what he wanted. He just wanted to see Shane.

He’d stayed with Shane’s family before one Christmas break, and being truthful, it was one of the best weeks he’d ever had.

Rick smiled at the memory, mind starting to fade away.

Things got particularly bad in the days leading up to his 8th grade winter break. It didn’t accumulate from screaming matches or throwing punches, but just rising tensions, shortening tempers, eventually boiling up higher and hotter, finally coming to a head alone in his room. Curled up in bed, he contemplated his life, thoughts too serious for any thirteen year old to be pondering, especially with such conviction. 

He packed a bag that night and went straight to Shane’s house, Mr. Walsh opening the door to find little Ricky Grimes, teary eyed and out of options. He invited him into his home, no questions asked.

They’d treated him as an honorary member of the Walsh clan, bringing him along to Christmas dinners and parties, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. As if he belonged there.

Mr and Mrs. Walsh even snuck out Christmas eve to get him presents.

And that’s what Rick fell asleep thinking about. Opening presents with the Walsh’s and feeling home without being home.

 

He woke that night, clock reading nearly three am. Lightning flashed, momentarily blinding him and causing him to duck away and groan, rubbing his eyes.

He leaned off up his stomach, absently looking around the room. It was all dark and quiet, lulled by the sound of the pounding autumn rain and whipping wind through the cracked window.

Lightning flashed quick and sudden again, giving Rick a split second to notice something out of the ordinary, right outside his window. 

Static ran up his spine and that feeling returned, the same one he felt in the field the previous night.

Primal instinct to run. Complete self-preservation. Fear as deep as it could cut.

He turned slowly, eyes first and body following, window coming into view.

Red eyes.

Glaring at him.

Straight through to the deepest reaches of his soul.

They seemed to glow. No, they burned.

Burned like the pits of hell.

His very breath ceased, caught in his throat and choking him. He couldn’t fucking breath.

His mind screamed ‘RUN,’ but his body was frozen, paralyzed in terror. His body trembled where he lay, vision swimming.

Another crack of lightning gave him a split second view of what he was looking at, at what was looking back at him.

It was on its haunches, or maybe on all fours, glowing eyes set straight on him, letting out the most gut wrenching growl. The same one from the field.

Bile rose in his throat.

It was covered in ugly fur, matted by the beating rain, droplets trickling down and oozing off its bared fangs, twisting and yellow like a dead man’s fingers.

It stood up on its hind legs, displaying its full height, brief flash of light glinting off coiled horns.

Rick struggled to breathe, choking out a sob.

Like the lightning itself, it was gone without a trace.

Rick never moved a muscle.

For hours until the sun rose over the field, he remained there, eyes fixed on the window, breath bated.

He didn’t sleep.


	5. Impact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the morning comes, nothing is right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a little shorter then the others but thats okay. There's some allusion to sexual assault in this chapter but I promise nothing like that actually happens in this fic, so just a heads up for that, and after this chapter, things start to heat up for ol Rick n Daryl so yeah enjoy

The morning was overcast, remnants of the previous night’s storm blocking out any sunshine.

 

Rick’s arms hugged around the porcelain bowl of the toilet, but he was done throwing up over an hour ago. He had nothing left in his stomach, his last ounces of energy used to dry heave and spit.

He couldn’t close his eyes, not even for a moment to keep them from getting dry. Every time he tried, all he saw were those eyes. Those horns. That matted fur.

The thought caused him to dry heave again, body lurching as his muscles painfully contracted, his entire body completely exhausted.

“Ugh God,” he groaned, resting his burning forehead against his shoulder, breath labored. Closing his eyes for a brief moment to regain his center, he was struck by the instinct to run, fear forcing his eyes open. Tears rolled down his flushed cheeks as his body convulsed again, the only thing coming up being more spit and a choked sob as his stomach clenched painfully.

He went without breakfast that day, the very thought of food causing his mouth to fill with saliva and stomach seize. His body trembled as he sank to the bathroom floor, cool tiles soothing against his clammy skin, but doing nothing to relieve the feeling of those burning eyes all over his body.

He wrapped his arms around himself, eyes wide open. 

 

After the sun broke through the thick veil of clouds and finally lit up the farm, Rick dragged his tired body out onto the back deck. His boots were too heavy for his exhausted legs to carry, so he wore his gray Adidas and a track windbreaker, much too light for the unseasonably cold wind, cutting right down to his skin and bones, but it was all his weary body could handle.

He was absolutely drained, not just from missing hours of valuable sleep and skipping out on breakfast, but his very essence had turned black. His life force had been depleted, leaving him with nothing more than just a beating heart.

Everything felt so gray, like a fog was filling his head, making everything unclear, as if he were lost at sea with no means of navigation. Nobody knew he was missing, and no help was on the way, leaving him stranded to perish, cold and alone.

God, it even hurt to breathe, air crystallizing in his lungs.

He closed his eyes for just a second.

A glare like the coals of hell.

His eyes snapped open, gazing over the backyard, totally calm and undisturbed. The wind whipped around him, like a taunting slap in the face.

He exhaled a shaky breath, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jacket. Turning, he warily approached the window but kept a wide distance from the sill. 

Even now, everything seemed so innocent, so regular, but Rick couldn’t break out of the gaze of those eyes, the glow holding claim on his soul

Everything carried on like nothing evil had transpired here. The sun still rose, the clouds still rolled along, the wind still blew all around him, but he was left behind, still in bed, cowering under the covers.

He got a bit closer, eyes desperately searching for proof.

‘Am I crazy? No, it had to have been real.’ Not a single thing was out of place. It was all too surreal.

But the way he felt last night, how he still feels right now, that dread and doom.

Rick shook his head and wiped away a tear threatening to fall. No, some dream wouldn’t make him feel so scared.

But a thought occurred to him.

‘What if I do find proof? What then?’

Carefully, Rick worked his spent body to crouch, coming eye level with where that _thing_ had been.

He peered into his room on the other side, bed still unmade and floor full of dirty clothes he has yet to clean up, completely inconspicuous.

He growled in frustration, balling his fists against his thighs.

“I’m not crazy,” he grit his teeth, enamel grinding together. Why wasn’t this as real to everything else as it was for him? God, what the hell is going on?!

Gaze flicking wildly back and forth over the window, he searched frantically for a sign, for _anything_ , that confirmed that he wasn't just imagining this, that we wasn’t losing his mind.

And his stomach sank when he found it. 

Just underneath the lip of the windowsill, perfectly shielded from the previous night’s pouring rain, sat a mark of some sort, subtle enough as not to draw attention to those who weren’t looking for it, but out of place enough for Rick to know it was left for him.

It was black, made out of some type of ash. No more than a smudge.

With bated breath and tears threatening to fall, he unfurled a fist from his thigh andand ever so slowly he reached out, grazing the ash with an anxious brush of a finger.

Apon mere contact, he was hit with flashes of those eyes, like a train speeding recklessly down the tracks. 

Fiery like the blazing pits of hell, dragging him under with them, strangling him with their intensity and unfiltered, raw evil.

He fell back onto his ass, wind knocked out of his lungs by the sheer force of the reality of the situation.

The only way to describe it is stunned. He couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but drop his head into his hands and cry, loud and uncontrollable. He was absolutely petrified.

Would it come back? Would it try and come inside? Would we wake up with it breathing down his neck, right before it rips it out? Did it _want_ to kill him? Or did it have some other terrible purpose for him?

He wailed into his knees, gripping his hair strained in trembling fists, curling into as tight of a protective ball as he could manage, and just sat there for the longest time, sobbing like a child scared of the monster in the closet. 

The tears and body tremors never ceased, even as footsteps haltingly strode up behind him. 

“The hells yer issue?” As always, his voice carried that air of mocking.

Rick didn’t look back, couldn’t even muster the energy to uncurl himself from his fetal position. He just shook his head, falling into another round of sobs and shakes.

Daryl sighed, gazing down at the pathetic form on the floor, eyes filled with something akin to pity.

Sliding off his dirty, dust covered work gloves and shoving them into his back pocket, he crouched next to Rick. He said nothing, just let his presence be known.

It took Rick quite some time to stop crying, but even with the worst of it over, the tears still fell, rolling down heated cheeks, flushed pink with irritation.

He glanced absently to the side, form of the angry farmhand just coming into his peripheral. 

“Go away asshole,” he ordered, voice no louder than a whisper. More tears fell, but it seemed the worst of it was over.

 

He wanted to be angry when Daryl didn’t move or say anything. He wanted to push him, to scream, to tell him to fuck off and never speak to him again when he made no indication of leaving, or of being angry with Rick calling him names again, but he didn’t have the energy to fight anymore. 

“Somethin’ bad happened last night,” he relented, whispering again, wiping the tears rolling down his cheek on his sleeve, attempting to present himself as bit less pathetic. He was still silent, nothing but a presence behind him. But he continued, knowing he was still listening.

“I know I wasn’t dreaming. I was awake and I was in bed. The storm woke me up and I...saw something,” he paused, uneasily turning his body to face Daryl, keeping his head lowered. If he spilled his guts to this guy and saw rejection or disbelief, it would crush him. But if he told nobody about what he saw, what he heard, and what he _felt_ , it would drive him crazy.

He continued.

“In the lightning, I saw something. Right outside my window. Just...standing there watching me.” He chanced it to look at Daryl’s face.

His expression was blank, but not skeptical. Merely listening and waiting for Rick to continue. So he did.

“It was a monster, I think. It was dark out so I couldn’t see it all, but even in the dark, I could see its eyes.” His body visibly shuddered, feeling the panic again.

“The way it _glared_ at me, I-I just knew it…” he didn’t know how to finish that sentence. His shoulders shook, breath becoming labored. 

“I can still feel them...all over me,” his voice broke, arms coming to wrap back around his chest, knees drawing in. The tears which had seemed to be over with resumed, running down to his chin, dripping down to blotch his jeans, like endless streams.

His eyes closed to stop them, but all he saw were the eyes, threatening and deadly. 

Any composure he’d managed to cling to fell apart. 

He whimpered and cried freely, unable to shake himself of the feeling of that gaze that had defiled him, body and soul. His fists clenched in his sleeves, bunching up in the loose fabric to pull it tight around himself, but finding no solace in anything he did. Rick was completely and totally helpless and he knew it. He'd been violated, and can’t even explain how or by what.

“I’m not crazy…” he wept, more for himself than for Daryl.

“What’d it look like?” His voice wasn’t it’s usual grumpy drawl, but a gentle variation of it. Rick couldn’t believe it, but for once, he was relieved Daryl said something. He lifted his gaze to the older boy, eyes filled with doubt, but heart filled with hope.

“I only saw it for a second in the lightning, but I saw enough…” he sniffled, but continued through the fear.

“It looked like this crazy hybrid thing, made in a lab or something, y’know? Had to be on all fours to look through the window...and it was covered in this gross fur, like it was supposed to be white, but it was all dirty so it wasn’t really. And it had those curly horns, y’know like a ram has, but then it had these fuckin’ teeth like a lion, and when it left it stood up on its back legs like a bear, then it ran away… I think it’s the devil…” he trailed off, diverting his gaze from his shoes to Daryl’s face, which didn’t look as neutral as it had a moment ago.

He looked...disturbed.

“...Daryl?” He didn’t get a chance to continue, because in the blink of an eye, he was down on the floor. 

Daryl was on top of him, hands squeezing his wrists and pinning them down painfully and twisting the skin.

“Get off!” Rick screamed, hysteria rising, struggling to rip away from the iron grip forcing him down. He was only held tighter. He sobbed and whimpered when Daryl growled in his face.

“Pussy, you better not be fuckin’ lyin’ ta me.” His voice was absolutely venomous.

“Daryl stop!” Rick cried, but he couldn’t move, body pinned by Daryl’s superior weight.

“I’ll spill yer fuckin’ guts if you are,” he threatened. Rick thrashed and kicked, but nothing seemed to affect him, filled with rage and adrenaline. He broke, having someone touching him, forcing themselves over him just become overwhelming, unable to do anything but bend to Daryl’s demands.

“I’m not lying, I promise! God, just get off!” he cried, still sobbing and struggling. The moment he felt Daryl’s grip around his wrists loosen, he ripped his right fist back and sent it hard into Daryl’s cheek, throwing him to the side and backed away, getting as far from the farmhand as he could. 

 

Daryl remain where he landed, eyes empty of the anger that his filled them just seconds ago. They seemed so far away, so glazed over. He was stunned, like Rick had been not long before.

“What the hell is wrong with you?! Why’d you do that?!” Rick demanded, still wracked with panic. But Daryl didn’t answer, didn’t even seem to understand he was being yelled at. He just sat there, a million miles away.

Why the reaction? What set him off?

It slowly pieced itself together, the daze in his eyes, the sudden violence, the look of fear. Rick gasped.

“You saw it too didn’t you?” he questioned, words thin like the crisp autumn air.

It took him a minute, but Daryl slowly came back down to earth, eyes turning to Rick. He shook his head in disbelief.

“I-I didn’t think it was real...I thought I was sleeping…” Rick could see his hands shaking in his lap, the tears he’s holding back.

Slowly, Rick crawled the distance between them, coming to kneel in front of him, sitting back on his calves.

“When?” Daryl’s eyes snapped to his, taken off guard by the question. He stammered for a second.

“Uh, just a few nights ago...the night you got here. It woke up and it was in my room...not moving or nuthin’, but just...looking at me. I thought I was dreamin’ so I forgot about it…I-I didn’t think...” he trailed off.

 

They remained there, wordless and reflective, weighing the situation,

“What do we do?” Rick implored, mind still reeling from both the relief and dread. Daryl sighed, lighting up a cigarette.

“Fuck, I dunno. We don’ even know what it is,” he grumped, dropping his forehead to rest in his palm.

Rick didn’t know how to feel.

Knowing now that someone else had seen it, had felt it made him feel less alone, less like he was losing his mind. But on the other side, someone else had seen it and _felt_ it, the same turmoil and dirty feeling Rick couldn’t shake was being experienced by another living soul. Even if it was someone as terrible as Daryl, who had _just_ physically attacked him, it was still a shame.

“D’ya think Gramma and Grampa know? That it’s here? Think they seen it?” Rick questioned, more to himself than anything. Daryl shrugged, cigarette already halfway gone.

“You’d think they woulda done sumthin’ about it if they did,” he reasoned, ashing off to the side.

‘God, is that what I looked like?’ Rick mused, taking in the pitiful sight of the usually stoic farmhand. 

He just looked absolutely haunted, eyes unfocused and smoke streams shaky as he blew them out, trying and failing to hide the tears welling up behind stringy bangs, seeming dirtier than they had when he approached just minutes ago, sticky with tears and sweat. His farmer’s tan had blanched, looking a sickly white, brittle to the touch.

He considered assuring him, promising it was all okay, to tell him he isn’t alone, but honestly, he’s still a little pissed about Daryl’s rash reaction. He could have just mildly threatened him, he didn’t have to jump on him like that. And it would have been a flat out lie, and both of them would have known it.

Nothing was okay, and it wasn’t Rick’s place to act like it was.

Things were far from okay, and the way Daryl looked at him, eyes scared and pleading for assurance, he knew it too.

“Daryl!” The sudden shout from below the deck startled them both, Rick’s heart skipping a beat and Daryl flinching away.

“C’mon boy, them scarecrows ain’t gonna tend themselves!” They laughed nervously, relief that the voice was just Grampa and not anything sinister. 

“Yeah, be right down,” he called back, stubbing the filter of his cigarette against the worn rubber of his heel. He remained for a moment, glancing up at Rick, licking his lips like he wanted to ask something, but there was no need for that, they were both thinking the same thing.

Rick shook his head, keep their eyes locked.

“I think we’ll be okay, it only seems to come at night.” His words were confident, effective at bringing Daryl a bit of ease, the farmhand nodding and glancing away, moving to stand up, Rick doing the same.

As they stood, a rain droplet landed at their feet, splattering on the stained wood of the deck, momentarily being joined by others. Daryl looked like he had something to say, biting his lips and keeping his eyes downcast.

“Don’t go anywhere alone if you can help it,” Daryl suggested, tension caught in his shoulders. He tapped the bottom of a pack of Marlboros, taking the filter poking out between his lips and lighting it up in one fluid motion, having done the same things hundreds of times before.

Rick scoffed and worked not to judge Daryl for his excessive habit of smoking, nodding at the advice, thinking it wise as well.

“Okay, you be careful too.” Daryl nodded, exhaling a big breath and turned for the stairs, leaving Rick standing in the rain.


	6. Kitty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick finds help from an old friend and Daryl goes it alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Shows up 2 months late with an update*
> 
> Sorry for literally being 2 months late, I've been drinking every night and hating my life but here ya go. I'll try not to be so late next time, but yall know that what college life be like

The kitchen was filled with the scent of cinnamon and apples, swirling all around him. Gramma was already baking pies for the party, now only four nights away. Only four nights until a dozen unsuspecting people were wandering right towards a monster.

Even with all this baking, prepping, and worrying to be done, Rick couldn’t take his eyes off the field, standing statuesque at the sink, peering out to where Daryl and Grampa were sitting ducks. 

“C’mon Ricky, where’s your head at?” Gramma chided from where she’d appeared next to him, seemingly out of thin air. He snapped back down to planet earth, stuttering and stumbling over his thoughts.

“What? Oh, whaddya need?” She shook her head in disapproval, smacking him with a decorative oven mitt.

“I said, can you go down and get me more vanilla extract?” She punctuated each word like he was half deaf, even adding in some hand gestures for good measure. 

“Oh yeah, sure, I can do that,” he assured, taking one last sweeping glance out the window. She shook her head as he did so.

“Huh, whatever you and Daryl were talkin’ about earlier has really got your mind occupied, doesn’t it?” His mind short circuited for a moment, turning to look at her.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She threw her hands up defensively, continuing to bustle around.

“Hey, it doesn’t mean anything...unless it does,” she riddled, turning back to the oven, setting the egg timer for forty minutes. He rolled his eyes and made his way for the basement door.

“It didn’t mean anything, he was just being an ass like usual,” he informed her, recalling how he tackled him when he was already in the midst of panic.

“Okay Rick, I believe you,” she assured, but Rick couldn’t figure out if she was being sarcastic or not. He grumbled about crazy old ladies and descended down the stairs to the pantry where Gramma kept a well stocked reserve of baking materials.

 

As a child, the basement was the bane of his existence, always having been the one who was sent down to fetch a pie tin for Gramma or a tool box for Grampa. The corners homed spiders as wide as his palm, the loud angry sounding furnace kicking on right behind him like something from his worst nightmares.

The attic was weird and kinda creepy, but the basement was downright terrifying. 

Now as a teenager, the spiders weren’t so big and the furnace wasn’t so loud, but it was still unsettling to say the least. 

His nerves jolted as a long centipede scurried it’s way along the wall closest to him, breath catching as his body jerked away, retreating into the annexing room.

It was a room he was generally not allowed into as a little kid, Grampa telling him there was a rat the size of the dogs that lived in there and was just waiting for disobedient little boys to wander in so it could feed him to the rat queen if he ever went in, and of course as gullible children do, he believed every word of it, never stepping foot inside, even if invited.

Obviously there was no labrador sized rats living in there, but the room did host a large variety of power tools, table saws, and sharp objects that would fit perfectly into a small child’s eye socket if it fell or was played with irresponsibly.

Surveying his surroundings, Rick nervously entered. Being a well behaved child, he’d never gotten in much trouble, but he was still uncomfortable being somewhere he knew he wasn’t supposed to be. He was sure Grampa wouldn’t mind him being there now that he’s bigger and knows not to mess around with table saws, but even still he doesn’t dislike it any less.

 

Something short and fuzzy brushed against his leg, causing Rick is choke on an inhale and flounder, staggering back, but quickly feeling like a jackass when the fuzzy thing meowed.

“Jesus Christ Kitty, you tryina kill me?” he huffed, chest heaving with visions of a rat queen licking her rotten, elongated teeth. 

The old cat stared blindly up at him, gray fur surrounding her jaded eyes, milky with advancing age. He smiled and bend down to pet her, but sensing his movement, she avoided him, wandering further into the room. He scoffed.

“Fine, be like that,” he grumped, turning to leave for the pantry.

A long, bellowing meow stopped him in his tracks, forcing him to stay.

She was braying at him, pacing circles and acting plain strange. Never had she done that before, acted so desperate. It sent a tremor up his spine, the temperature of the room dropping.

“You just senile or and I supposed to follow you?” She wailed again, darting around tables and coaxing him in.

Rick followed suit, Kitty leading him deeper and deeper into the room, passing saws and tool drawers into where the lights flickered and dimmed, wiring having been faulty for years.

The cries never ceased, only becoming more eerie as they neared a smaller room of to the side, where Grampa stored the wood used for the furnace. He’d actually never seen the inside but it wasn’t anything impressive, just stacks of wood against the wall and a tall shelving unit taking up nearly half of the right side of the room, full of what he assumed to be useless junk if the thick layer of dust was anything to go by.

She looked up at him, eyes big and dusky and bellowed, cry reverberating off the walls in the most jarring way, prickling along his skin.

“What am I doing here Kitty?” Under normal circumstances, he’d think himself crazy for following the orders of a grizzled cat into a creepy back room in the basement, but circumstances weren’t normal anymore, not by a long shot. Not with some devil beast from his worst nightmares somewhere out there.

She parted from her place at his feet, staggering with her advanced age over to the tall storage unit and pawed at the first shelf, seeming to want to climb up but old joints too tired to hoist herself up. She looked to him and meowed again.

Approaching at a pace, not knowing what kind of nasty bugs or rat drones could be lurking in the shadows of the storage unit, Rick gently wrapped Kitty up in his arms, lifting her slowly as to not hurt her, keenly aware of her fragile state. 

Once he stood straight up, it was like something came and bit her in the ass.

She all but leapt out of his hold onto the nearest shelf, doing the same pacing and meowing as before, but intensified, meows more like hisses as she begged for his attention.

“I don’t get it Kitty,” Rick plead, hands coming to cover his eyes as the tears of frustration welled up. This had something to do with that thing last night, he just knew it, but how was he supposed to figure out what she was trying to say. This was all way too bizarre.

One last, echoing wail reverberating through the tight space of the room, slow like this was his last chance to decode the clues.

His shoulders sagged and exhaled the last of his patience.

“I just don’t get it,” he cried, filled with frustration. 

Moving in to pick her up and set her back down on the ground, Rick reached out but she easily evaded him, slick like a snake even in her old age, retreating further back behind a power drill and resting against the wall, resuming her braying.

“You little shit…” Rick cursed at her, fed up with all these cryptic hints and crazy cats. He reached back to grab her but she moved again, hissing at him.

“Quit being an asshole!” He shouted, flinching back in shock as she clawed at his hand, piercing the skin and drawing blood, drawing his wounded fist to his chest, cradling himself.

“Fuck you cat!” Full of spite, Rick went back in for more.

“Okay Kitty, you got something to show me? Then goddamn show me and quit being a bitch!” If Gramma was listening to him right now, she’d either smack him in the head for his foul language or send him back home for going crazy and talking to the cat, and then smack him for calling her a bitch. 

Peering into the deep shelf, he’d lost track of the cat, too dark to properly see much of anything worth seeing.

Sighing in pure annoyance, he pulled out his phone from his pocket, swiping up on the screen and pulling up the control menu. Tapping on the flashlight app, he was met with a flash of blinding light directly to the eyes.

“Motherf…” he trailed off, huffing and turning the light into the abyss of the self, tilting his phone back and forth in search of the cat, but the black spots flooding his vision was no help.

Slowly his vision cleared back up, and something truly worth seeing caught his eye.

 

It never got hot anymore which Daryl was eternally grateful for. Nothing worse than feeling beads of sweat rolling down your stomach and not being able to wipe it away, like a slug crawling down your midsection. The thought alone made him shutter.

The heat sucked, but it was nothing compared to the cold.

Fingers freezing to the point of going numb, and the pain of them thawing out was excruciating, like an ice cube cracking apart when dropped into boiling water. 

Luckily, they were mostly done with field work when winter set in, but some October mornings could be none too forgiving.

He breathed on his exposed digits, rubbing them together to gather up some friction heat.

Taking a moment for himself, he lifted his gaze over the field to the house, deep in thought.

“You okay Daryl? Been quiet, even for you. Somethin’ goin’ on?” He averted his attention to the old man, shaking his head in denial. Grampa hummed in doubt.

“It got somethin’ to do with Rick? You two seemed to be talkin’ ‘bout somethin’ pretty important on the deck…” Daryl didn’t answer, just turned away and continued bundling up the rest of the corn stalks.

 

Once all the work was finished up there, Grampa sent him off to refasten some fallen scarecrows, last night’s storm having blown them right off their posts. He knew it was just busy work, but he’d do it to keep himself and his mind occupied.

Last thing he needed right now was time to dwell on what lurked in the shadows. And more importantly, dwell on his actions.

He hurt Rick. He got so scared and so angry, he lashed out and put the poor kid on the ground. Daryl never meant to hurt him, never even meant to scare him, but he did. 

He couldn’t get it out of his mind, how he jumped on him and forced him down, all while the kid was screaming and begging him to stop. The look in his eyes, tears spilling over, terror written in those dewy cerulean irises. 

Frustration bubbling up in his chest, Daryl grit his teeth and seethed, twisting a fist in his hair and tearing on the strands.

“I always fuckin’ do this!”

 

Bodies of scarecrows littered the ground all around him, every single one of them lying there, half their straw blown all around, sticking out of the stalks. Groaning, knowing full well it will be his job to clean up, he gets started on stringing up the first of the scarecrows back up to the posts, limbs more boneless than usual due to the lack of support.

Looked more like a massacre than some wind storm.

Shuffling along from one post to the next, pinning each body to it’s support beam one at a time, using his own body to keep the scarecrow upright while blindly tying the appendage down behind it. It was tedious work, causing a kink in his neck and chilling his fingers to the bone, and not to mention he’d have to restuff each damn one and sew them shut where they broke open.

“God damn,” he grumped, smacking his hands down to his thighs to get a little blood heat to the surface, stepping back from where the flimsy husks stood against the mild breeze. It wasn’t his best work, but it’ll have to do until he can get new straw to stuff them with. It all needed to be replaced anyway.

While tethering the final scarecrow to its post and cursing the cold weather, something rather suspicious caught Daryl’s critical eye.

To anyone else, it would have been nothing, just a stain on the jacket of a weathered old scarecrow. An ancient oil stain on an equally ancient flannel shirt, all falling apart at the seams, but this is new.

This was that same thing that was underneath Rick’s window, where he claims the monster sat.

So small, yet so significant.

‘It’s been here,’ he figured, reaching out and running the pad of a finger over the mark.

‘Like ash.’ A sudden shift in the wind jump started his heart, dry corn stalks rustling together, a flock of crows braying in the distance.

Jamming his hand into the back pocket of his blue jeans, he pulled out a knife, mostly used for cutting wires and digging thorns out of his hands, but right now, used for slitting throats of alien beasts if they dared to wander too close.

This moment here, out alone in this field with nothing more than a little pocket knife for protection, was easily the most terrifying moment of his life. Nothing his brother or his daddy ever did even cast a shadow on this. One field mouse running over his foot was all it would take to make him piss himself at this point.

His critical eyes honed in on every shift in his surrounding, hunter’s instincts heightening his senses, no small detail going unnoticed, including more ash marks mottling the blanche of the cork stalks.

They seemed inconspicuous, like a possible pest infestation, but there was a clear trail, leading away from the mess of scarecrows, down the path deeper into the field.

Every hunter’s instinct and what little common sense he had was screaming ‘cut your losses and run!”

But his guilt was telling him ‘you need to make it right for the kid you just put in tears.’ Goddamn was this guilty conscience of his convincing.

Armed with just a little pocket knife and a need to redeem himself, he followed the trail, one terrified step at a time.

 

It was difficult, the morning rain washing away most of what little he had to go on, but the trail led him here, to the broken down clubhouse Gramma and Grampa’s grandchildren grew up playing in.

He’d never spent much time here, too far out of the way for work and too dilapidated to be any good for anything other than maybe throwing rocks at to see if it’ll all crash down.

But it seems something else has found a use for it after all.

‘It’s in there.’ He knew it. He had no solid evidence, but he just could feel something inside wasn’t right in there, some dark force emanating from within keeping him from coming near.

Even if he could approach, if he could step inside, it would be a dumb idea. All he had was a small knife and his bare hands to fight with, and that wasn’t gonna be enough to do any real damage, let alone get away if need be.

This was definitely one of those “live to fight another day” moments.

Taking a step back, stony eyes never leaving the crumbling structure of the clubhouse, something crunched beneath his boot, throwing off his balance for a slip second, just quick enough to give his heart a small jolt of fear.

“I swear t’ God…” he grumbled, resting his weight on his palms braced against his knees, catching his breath. All this monster hunting shit is gonna give him a damn heart attack.

Moving his boot to the side, he gasped at what he saw, lying there so innocently in the dirt.

With bated breath, he picked it up with tender care, rasta threads now tattered and stained with the same black ash that he’d followed here, the square SW&RG beads just hanging on by mere strings.

“Oh no,” he whispered, knowing exactly what he’d just stumbled upon. 

He had to have lost it that day they first met, when he threw that scarecrow on him and put in in the dirt. It had to have come loose then and gotten lost in all the chaos, until that thing found it. Found Rick.

What little self-respect he ever had crumpled at the realization that this was all his fault. Every single bit of it.

Pocketing the bracelet and taking one last look at the clubhouse, the returned to his work, dreading having to face Rick when the time came to fess up.

 

Dinner was unusually quiet. Not hostile or confrontational like it had been since Rick arrived, but sullen.

Everyone felt it, even Gramma and Grampa, who carried on a conversation between themselves, every now and then casting a quick glance to the boys who seemed so downcast.

Daryl especially. It’s been so long since they’ve seen him so reserved, and with Rick’s added presence, he’s been going out of his way to get in the boy’s nerves, but he’s so withdrawn and silent, it’s a bit concerning. They wanted to ask, but they knew they’d be ignored.

The only thing to snap him out of his bubble was a tap on his thigh, and something smooth being pushed into his lap.

Rick sipped from his glass, not looking over to Daryl, keeping his actions concealed.

A slip of paper was pushed into his palm, fingers closing around it, eyes darting up to see if either of them saw. The elderly couple kept on with their conversation, seemingly unaware of things around them. 

Dropping his eyes down to his lap to the paper in his hand, the unfurled the folded corners to read the neat handwriting inside.

_‘Something in the basement, need your help.’ ___

__Hidden by his long bangs, he glanced to the side where Rick caught his eye, giving him a single affirming nod to which he returned, with much less confidence than the boy next to him._ _

__

__They waited until the coast was clear to slip through the basement door, Rick leading the way, clarifying as he walked._ _

__He knew it sounded crazy, explaining that he was lead by a senile cat to the wood room where the same senile cat lead him to a “big find” as he put it._ _

__“So I saw something back there and I tried to move the shelf but it was too heavy and I need your help to move it and see what’s back there.”_ _

__Daryl stood there, shoulders slumped, gazing up at the shelve twice his height and weight._ _

__He sighed._ _

__“So, you want me t’ throw my back out moving this heavy ass shelf ‘cause a twenty year old cat told ya to?” Rick seemed to ponder the question, sucking his bottom lip in and shrugging._ _

__“Well, she’s not quite that old, but yes, I do.” Daryl wanted to walk away, back up those steps and to his shed where he could forget all about Rick Grimes and this crazy cat of his. But he knew he couldn’t. He owed him this much._ _

__“This might as well goddamn happen, all this crazy shit,” he grumbled, taking a step forward, wrapping his hands around a support, getting his feet onto place so they don’t slip. Taking a deep breath, he turned to Rick one last time._ _

__“Rick,” he said, gaining the boy’s undivided attention before continuing. “I jus’ want you t’ know, if I move this heavy ass shelf ‘cause you say a cat you to, and there ain’t nothin’ back here, I’m gonna kick the shit outta you.” The boy tucked his arms behind his back, rocking on his toes._ _

__“I suppose that’d be fair.”_ _

__His first pull didn’t get him far, the heavy structure just scraping through the dust on the floor._ _

__“Your goddamn cat better be right,” he grit, anchoring down and using every muscle in his arms, shoulders and back to get this thing moving, the shrill screeching of metal against concrete ringing in the confined space._ _

__

__While Daryl huffed and puffed to move the towering shelf, Rick took in the sight._ _

__Big biceps straining, wide shoulders squared and sturdy, protruding veins running down along chorded, hard muscles._ _

__‘Hot damn...Ugh, more important things Rick!’_ _

__

__The going was slow, but it sure was worth the pay off._ _

__Kitty had been right._ _

__Daryl rung the tension out of his hands as he backed away from the shelf and the newly unveiled wall, taking his place next to Rick, who stood in awe of their find._ _

__“Holy hell…” he breathed, Rick nodding in agreement._ _

__Black lines had been painted over in pale gray, but had failed to be completely concealed, black bleeding through the lighter color. Whatever it was or had been at one point, didn’t look recognizable. It looked almost foreign in nature, perhaps from some alien language or ancient script._ _

__It looked to be a symbol of some sort, not words. Long lines, arrows, shapes, all collected into one image up on the wall._ _

__Why though?_ _

__Why painted over and hidden behind a heavy shelf? Why is it here in the first place?_ _

__“This is it,” Daryl said, eyes not moving from Rick’s discovery. His voice was soft like Rick had never heard, as if he wasn’t meant to hear it._ _

__“What?” Rick implored, eyes shifting from the wall to Daryl’s awestruck face, eyes wide._ _

__“Whatever that thing is, wherever it comes from, this is how it got here. Someone brought it here. It’s gotta be,” he hypothesised, tone getting firm as he grew more confident in his conjecture, words more announciated than his typical drawl._ _

__It was possible. Shit, that symbol looked like something used to summon the devil, but who? Why here?_ _

__There was just so many questions and so few answers._ _

__

__“I found somethin’ too,” Daryl sighed. His tone didn’t sound promising, and his face grew solemn as he dug through his pocket, alerting Rick to his drop in mood._ _

__The look of guilt crossed his face as he reached a fist out, unfurling it to drop something into Rick’s waiting palm._ _

__Rick gasped as the rasta bracelet in his hand, tattered and dirty, but all there._ _

__“You had it the whole time?” He exclaimed, rolling the frayed strings between his fingers, already thinking up how to fix it._ _

__“Found it today. By the scarecrows, there was more of them ash marks and I tracked ‘em back to that ol’ clubhouse. Think that’s where it’s livin’, an’ I found it there in the dirt.” He wouldn’t meet Rick’s eyes as he spoke. He spoke to the ground, his shoes, or the wall, anywhere but the other boy._ _

__“You didn’t go in there did you?” There was no anger or blame in Rick’s voice, only concern. Daryl bashfully lifted his gaze to meet Rick’s worried eyes. He stuttered for a moment before answering._ _

__“Nah,” he started, but had to find it within himself to continue. “Rick...I didn’ mean this.”_ _

__The air became tense as Daryl drew away._ _

__“Mean what?” Rick didn’t quite know what to make of Daryl’s sudden change in attitude. So apprehensive in a way he’d never seen, a far cry from his typical abrasive crassness. Rick prodded further when he didn’t answer._ _

__“Daryl, what didn’t you mean?”_ _

__“‘M sorry Rick. All this. ‘S all my fault. If I hadn’t...y’know, that first day out by the scarecrows, ya wouldn’t have dropped yer bracelet. It wouldn’t have found you without that bracelet… It’s all my fault.” He’d seen Daryl scared, angry, and shy just a minute ago, but Rick never thought he’d see him sorry. Truly sorry. So sorry he couldn’t look Rick in the eye._ _

__Being honest with himself, it isn’t as fulfilling as he’d hoped. It didn’t bring him satisfaction or a warm, fuzzy feeling in his stomach._ _

__It was unsettling, a lead weight on his shoulders._ _

__“Daryl…” He continued, ignoring Rick._ _

__“An’ for today, on the deck...I’m sorry ‘bout that too. I didn’t mean to.” Rick sighed, dropping his head._ _

__“Daryl… this isn’t your fault. Even without the bracelet, it woulda found me.” He’s sure his words did little to console him, the damage already done._ _

__“Look, we gotta figure this out. We can play the blame game later, but right now, I think we need to talk to Gramma and Grampa. I mean, they gotta know something about this.” That caught Daryl’s attention, eyes snapping up to meet Rick’s, shaking his head without a second thought._ _

__“No? Why not?”_ _

__“I dunno, jus’ don’t like the sound of that. Like I said b’fore, If they knew, they woulda done somethin’, an’ they probably wouldn’t have let you come here if they knew that thing was here. Rick, I don’t think they know, an’ I don’t think we should tell ‘em.”_ _

__Given his reasoning, Rick agreed._ _

__

__Night was falling fast on the farm, sun turning hot orange close to the skyline, stars peeking out high in the sky. The chill in the air was ominous, cutting down to the bone as Rick and Daryl stood on the deck, discussing a plan._ _

__“There’s an answer somewhere. I know it. There’s gotta be,” Rick said, mostly to himself, the both of them running in circles with questions and tentative answers that don’t matter in the end._ _

__“Nothin’ to do ‘bout it now. ‘S gettin’ late,” Daryl drawled, last cigarette of his pack nearly burned down to the filter._ _

__Rick turned away from the sunset burning holes in his retinas, back to his window, where that blank ash smudge still remain, casting a shadow over his conscience._ _

__He couldn’t do another sleepless night in that room, defenseless in his bed, just waiting for that thing to show up again, this time inside. Where it could touch him._ _

__He wasn’t safe._ _

__“I uh…” he trailed off, not quite sure himself what he was about to ask. Daryl turned to Rick when he hesitated._ _

__“I can’t. Not again. Now that I know what’s out there, I can’t be alone again. Honestly, I’d feel a little safer surrounded by knives and a crossbow…” he hinted, digging a fingernail into the stained wood of the rail. Daryl shot him an inquisitive glance, almost amused._ _

__“How the hell you know ‘bout all that?” Rick quirked an eyebrow._ _

__“When I put the bat in your bed, I saw all those knives in the wall and the crossbow,” he explained, causing Daryl to grin and shake his head, stubbing out the filter and flicking it down into the bushes. He pushed off the banister with a laugh, tugging Rick along towards the stairs by the tail of his jacket._ _

__“I forgot ‘bout all that actually, thanks fer remindin’ me.” Rick matched Daryl’s grin, following him down the steps and off towards the shed before night fell on them._ _

__“Jerk.”_ _


	7. Big Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick finds safety in Daryl, and Merle sheds some light on the situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit this is actually mildly on time. I'm slowly feeling like the more I write the worse it gets but here I am.
> 
> *WARNING* this chapter contains mentions of gore, animal torture, and a dead kid so be aware of this.
> 
> Please comment, it makes me feel so happy to get comments
> 
> This fic is currently on hiatus

Finding out a hell monster is roaming the backyard and staring it down all night long really takes its toll on a person, Rick found as he was moments from falling asleep in the shaky chair, startling back awake with every noise and shift in atmosphere.

But, funny enough, this is the first time all day he’s felt at ease, that he’s felt halfway safe, in Daryl’s shed, surrounded by knives and crossbow wielding farmhands. Safe enough to allow himself to nod off. If even just for a second.

“Ya good over there, Champ?” The sudden voice ripped him from one of his little doses of sleep, snapping him back down to earth like a broken rubber band.

Daryl smirked from his place across the table, finishing off the last bits of a cookie he’d swiped after dinner.

Rick had half a mind to roll his eyes if they didn’t feel like lead weights sitting in his skull. He didn’t have the energy to deal with Daryl’s attitude and it showed when he didn’t give him the reaction the other boy clearly hoped for. Rick just shook his head and leaned back, chair creaking unsound beneath his weight. 

Daryl’s smirk faltered when Rick didn’t answer.

“How you feelin’?” Rick cracked an eyelid, peering through his lashes at the other boy. He shrugged, tension in his shoulders weighing him down.

“Tired,” he sighed, staring past Daryl to the door.

He’s not entirely sure what he expects, perhaps some growling or for that thing to just rush in and kill them both, but keeping his eyes locked firmly on the door brought peace of mind. Very little, but some.

“Ya look it too. Didn’t sleep too much las’ night, didja?” Rick couldn’t help but snicker, shaking his head.

“Kinda hard to sleep with a monster staring at me all night.” Now looking back at the previous night’s events, it wasn’t so much fear that he felt, but anger. Frustration. And yeah, fear too.

But mostly the anger and frustration.

All he could do was sit here in this stupid shed and hope that thing doesn’t come during the night, or wait while it goes to the house and take its pick of victims.

“Should get some sleep. Ain’t no use to anyone if yer passed out in that chair. I’ll keep watch ‘nd if it comes ‘round, it ain’t leavin’ alive,” Daryl suggested, arming up his crossbow to make his point.  
Rick smiled at the gesture.

“I think I’ll take you up on that offer,” he nodded, too exhausted to do the whole ‘politely decline and then finally give in apon insistence’ bit. At this point, if Daryl was offering up a warm, soft bed and protection during the night, who the hell is he to turn down such a gracious offer? He wasn’t raised to be rude.

Standing warily out of the old wooden chair, Rick sluggishly made his way to the bed, the plush pillows and cozy blankets beckoning his name, pleading for him to just kick off his shoes and lay down.

And that’s just what he did.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Rick shucked his too thin jacket and gray trainers, weighing whether or not to take off his jeans, ultimately deciding against it, weirded out by the thought of it. He barely tolerates Daryl, no way he’s going pantsless in the guys bed.

Thoughts tunneling, Rick hadn’t noticed Daryl moving around the shed, only catching on when he stood in front of him, something balled up in his outstretched hand.

“Gets cold.” Taking and unfurling it, Rick was surprised, to say the least, to find a Green Bay Packers sweater in his hands. It was clearly old, heathered gray worn and filled with holes, and was about three sizes too big. He stuttered, unsure what to make of Daryl’s offer.

“Uh, thanks,” he said, keeping his eyes on the sweater as to not meet Daryl’s and make the situation more awkward than it already was. If Rick didn't know what to think before, he was really in the dark now. 

He shrugged it on, sleeves coming down to completely encase his hands and collar stretched out enough to nearly hang off one shoulder, but damn was it comfortable, and he couldn’t help but notice it smelled pretty great too. Not like lilacs or other detergent scents, but like a real nice cologne with a hint of pine. If his eyes didn’t weigh a metric ton, they’d probably roll back in his head.

“This too, ‘f ya wan’ it,” Daryl said, handing Rick a second offering.

A knife he’d recognized from the wall, long and silver, glinting in the dim overhanging light. It looked genuine too, must have cost him a small fortune to get a hold of. Fixed blade with a rosewood handle, fit with grooves to let the fingers rest with a tight grip.

It certainly wasn’t anything to be taken lightly, so Rick tentatively took it from Daryl, a bit taken back by how naturally the handle fit his hand, how _right_ the weight of it felt.

With this impressive knife sitting beside him on the nightstand and with Daryl watching over the door, Rick would have no trouble finding sleep. As he was getting settled down for the night, cocooned nicely in the fuzzy blankets, head resting in the deep give on the pillows, Daryl spoke again.

“Got someone I can call in th’ mornin’, think he could help us.”

And with that, Rick was out in no time. 

 

Daryl kept vigilant, senses sharp and eyes keen the entire night, ears picking up every shift in the wind, every croon of the owls.

And at approximately three in the morning, he picked up an anomaly in the atmosphere. A sort of oppression, a weight that hadn’t been there moments before.

The same feeling he’d gotten while surveying the clubhouse.

It was drawing near.

Alarm bells ringing in his head, Daryl stood from his place seated at the table, slow and fluid like cigarette smoke, bow cocked and aimed at the door.

“C’mon you sumbitch,” he grit, finger trained on the trigger, only a hair of pressure needed to send a bolt flying.

His anxiety grew as the noise outside did, a rustling in the tall grass alongside the shed that definitely wasn’t the wind.

Then came the growling.

The sound alone shot terror into his heart, but he didn’t waver, nerves set in stone. He couldn’t back down, not with someone else depending on him.

And just as soon as the presence was there, it was gone without a trace. No running off or anything like that, just vanished into the wind.

He stood stock still, bow aimed straight for the door, even after the coast was clear, only letting his guard rest once his heart slowed enough for his breath to even out.

Sitting back down, he allowed himself a moment to tear his steely gaze from the door, glancing over to Rick, still sound asleep, curled up with his nose tucked under the blankets, unaware to what had just taken place.

‘Good,’ Daryl thought, sitting with his bow in his lap until the sky turned light.

 

Rick had slept like a rock, completely uninterrupted the whole night through, at ease knowing he was safe. And he woke in the morning the same way, slowly drifting from pleasant dreams of Georgia beaches back to sunlight filtering through the single pane window and low voices holding a conversation.

One of them was Daryl, gravelly and short, but the other he didn’t know.

Gently coaxing himself out of sleep, Rick sighed deep, eyelids fluttering open.

First thing he saw was Daryl, sitting in the chair he had occupied last night, back facing him. He couldn’t see the cigarette, but he could see the smoke rising up towards the ceiling, and he could hear his mumbling in response to the man on the other side of him.

Rick knows this is his brother, the guy he was on the phone with during his stab at revenge, but he honestly sees no resemblance, in looks or in mannerisms.

The man looked so unconcerned, smiling and laughing, talking wildly in a way that Daryl never would, all hands and gestures. So much expression in even the color of his eyes, a cool wintery blue that shifted to Rick, smiling big at him.

“Aww hey, Sleepin’ Beauty finally up to join in on the fun,” the man, Daryl’s brother, announced, both of them looking at him, eyes still blurry and ears sensitive to sound.

“I’m Daryl’s big brother, here ta save his pansy ass again. An’ you must be the city boy,” the man teased, self-satisfied grin eating away at Rick patience.

‘I can barely stand Daryl, now I gotta deal with his annoying ass brother? Lucky me, not even noon and I’m ready to blow my head off.’ He flicked his eyes to Daryl for answers, or maybe some help, but all he got was a shrug, turning back to sip from a bottle of beer.

“C’mon now, don’ ya hold out on me, I’m dyin’ t’ know what the hell ya’ll drag me out here for,” Daryl’s brother said, tone dropping and shooting an icy glare to his little brother, who cast another glance back at him.

“I wanted t’ wait ‘till you got up t’ tell him everything,” Daryl confessed, shoulders tense.

Rick couldn’t help but take note of something strange in their dynamic, how his brother's very presence seemed to make Daryl go mousy. He domineered over his little brother by simply sitting across from him, Rick could tell by just observing for a moment.

“Well? Ya know ol' Merle don’ like t’ be kept waitin’,” his voice dropped, locking his gaze onto his brother, and then to Rick.

So, Rick started from the beginning. Meeting Daryl by the scarecrows, finding the dead raccoon, being stalked home in the field, that thing outside his window, and their discoveries by the clubhouse and in the basement. And all throughout Rick’s recounting of the events, Merle didn’t seem shocked or bewildered at all. His face was stoic, hardened. He just sat there and sipped on his beer until he was finished filling him in.

And when he did show emotion, he was angry, slamming a fist down on the table.

 

“Goddammit boy! Why the hell you gotta go git yerself inta this? After everything I done.”

Rick breath stopped cold in his lungs, as did Daryl’s, their eyes meeting at Merle’s sudden outburst, shock apparent on their faces.

“Hell’s that mean?” Daryl demanded, rising up out of his chair to stare his older brother down, anger boiling over when he was met with silence.

“Hell’s that mean, Merle!?” He demanded again, fury bleeding into his voice. By the looks of it, he was moments from jumping across that table and wringing Merle’s neck, and Merle clearly felt the same, bristling and rising up, palms flat against the table.

“Don’t take that tone with me ya little shit, I’ll put ya in the fuckin’ ground boy!” He seethed, jabbing a finger in his little brother’s direction.

“That thing followed Rick home! An’ yer mad cuz I’m yellin’? Fuck off!”

Just as it would seem the brothers would surely kill each other, Rick’s voice, soft and calm, lifted above the volatile shouting, bringing the room to a chilling silence.

“You knew.”

Daryl was quiet as Rick’s revelation weighed on him. Merle looked as if he wanted to say something, but he bit the words back, dropping his eyes down to his hands, eyes that had just held fire now seeming so uncertain.

“You gotta understand-” Merle started, but Daryl didn’t let him finish, temper getting the better of him.

“You sonofabitch! You knew it was here the whole time an’ didn’t think ta mention it?!” Merle huffed but didn’t lash out, keeping himself as level as he could while being scrutinized. 

“Boy, sit yer ass down and let me fuckin’ explain,” he tried to pacify but Daryl seemed deaf to it, anger overtaking his mind.

“You had all this time ta tell me, an’ you didn’t? Yer a real piece a work Merle, y’know that? Of all the shit to hold out on,” he fumed, fists trembling. He opened his mouth to continue berating his brother, but Rick didn’t let him.

“Let him talk, Daryl.” His voice was even, keeping stable amidst the tirade. The look Daryl shot him looked of absolute betrayal, silently asking how he could take Merle’s side, but obeyed nonetheless, reluctantly sitting back down.

The atmosphere was heavy as Merle began, the man clearly uncomfortable with what he was about to share, but in the end it was necessary.

“B’fore Daryl was here, I was the farmhand, but I wasn’t th’ only one,” he said, lighting up a cigarette and inhaling deep.

“I never knew that.” Daryl mimicked his brothers actions, lighting his own cigarette, the sight of it making him itch for one himself.

“There’s a good reason fer that,” he informed, ashing before continuing.

“His name was Randall, and I always got a weird feeling off him, like he was always up to somethin’. He always talked ‘bout weird shit too, and I mean real weird shit. Once asked me if I ever killed animals fer fun instead of fer food. I tol’ him no, and ta quit askin’ me weird shit like that er I’d kick his ass.”

“So, one day, I find a pack a my smokes are missin’ and I know that lil’ rat took em, so I go look through his bag an’ in the bottom I found this metal box with a lock an’ everything. Well, far as I know, my goddamn smokes are in there, so I bust that fucker open an’...they weren't in there,” he ended abruptly, taking a deep hit off his smoke.

“But there was something in there,” Rick challenged, eyes locking with Merle’s.

“Doesn’t matter,” he resigned, dropping his eyes away from Rick, but he didn’t give in.

“It all matters now, Merle. What was in that box?” Rick demanded.

Merle looked too Rick, pausing on him for a moment before turning his attention to Daryl, who anxiously gnawed on his thumb. Oddly, Merle smirked and shook his head, something on his mind he clearly wasn’t sharing.

“There was uh, a few different things in there. Some pictures, like ol’ polaroids, of dead animals that didn’t die naturally, ‘f ya get what I’m sayin’. Some fingernails, still had blood on ‘em, a few teeth he ripped right outta somethin’ mouth roots an’ all. Few other little things, but I jus’ remember seein’ them pictures with squirrels with their head twisted all the way ‘round, possum with its legs ripped right off, other sick shit like that. An’ some a them animals were still alive! He left ‘em alive ta die slow.”

As his last sentence trailed off, the room went pin-drop quiet, both Rick and Daryl struggling to digest the information.

Disturbed was the closest thing to describe how Rick was feeling, but that word didn’t begin to scratch the surface, and it was clear by the horror written on his fact, Daryl felt the same.

“S-so, uh, what’s that gotta do with the hell beast running around,” Rick managed, drawing Merle’s attention.

“Jus’ goes t’ show how fuckin’ sick this fucker was, keepin’ pictures like that in a lock box, but that ain’t all. I don’t know if you know, but a few years back, b’fore Daryl was here, there was an ‘accident’,” he said, utilizing air quotations to emphasize the word “accident.” He thought back to his first night back while washing dishes with Gramma, their conversation before being interrupted, and how solemn she became. He needed no prompting to continue. 

“I wasn’t there that night, there was a party as a buddy’s place so I went there, but I guess at the party they have here, a lil’ kid went missin’, her mama turned away for a second then she was jus’ gone. So, they went out an’ looked all over for her, an’ when they found her, well let’s just say yer dead raccoon was probably in better shape,” he chuckled, but the funny part was lost on his audience.

“So Randall killed the kid? What, to summon it here? Or did that thing kill her?”

“Beats me. Cops didn’t know what t’ make of it. They didn’t think it was murder, but we don’t got nuthin’ around here that could do anythin’ like that, so it was never solved. Next day, Randall up and left, didnt tell anyone where he was goin’. Left all his shit here too. Wasn’t long after that night that weird shit started happenin’ around here. Hearin’ weird sounds out in the field, rash of dead animals, and them black ash marks y’all found, there were on what was left of the kid’s clothes. And then one night, I couldn’t sleep so I went for a walk around the field like I always did, jus’ ta clear my head...an’ what I heard, what I saw..."

his eyes fell shut, eyebrows furrowing as if the recollection itself caused him pain, real physical pain.  
“You saw it?” Daryl inquired. His brother nodded in confirmation.

“Saw ‘nuff of it ‘t know it shouldn’t be here, that it wasn’t right. So I did what I could to protect this place from it. Got all these old books off a lady friend who does all that witch shit, did whatever I could t’ ward it off. One said t’ bury bottles of salt around the property, another said t’ wear Agate stones, others said stringing up jars of rainwater in the trees works, so I jus’ did it all.”

“So all those jars in the tree out front, that was you trying to protect this place?” Rick questioned. Merle nodded.

“It seemed to work pretty good, animals stopped turnin’ up dead an’ all, so I figured it either pissed off back t’ wherever it came from or went somewhere else.”

“Do Gramma an’ Grampa know ‘bout it?” Daryl asked.

“Hell nah, they were so broken up ‘bout that kid, I couldn’t go tellin’ em’ all this shit. They was better off not knowin’, so I put all Randall’s shit away, hid that symbol ya found in the basement and never told a soul ‘bout what I saw. Was better off that way.”

“So why is it back now? After all this time?” Rick prodded, shoulders slumping as Merle shrugged.

“Dunno. S’ppose maybe since all the protections haven’t been kept up with, it’s all jus’ gettin’ weak, then somethin’ new musta been the last straw. I still got all them books though if you want ‘em, up in the attic with some of Randall’s shit. Looks like y’all need ‘em more than I do,” he teased, Daryl rolling his eyes as he stubbed out the last of his cigarette.

“Okay, let’s go get them,” Rick said, already pulling on his shoes when Merle waved a hand.

“Nah nah nah, hold on city boy. I haven’t seen my baby brother in months an’ I jus’ so happen to have brought a lil’ gift for him.” This garnered Daryl’s attention, brows scrunching in confusion.

“Ya did?” Merle hummed, reaching down into a backpack he’d set under the table, pulling out a blue glass bong and a little baggie to match.

Daryl’s eyes lit up, big toothy grin adorning his face, the brothers wasting no time to make use if it, taking turns passing it back and forth between them.

Rick, relaxing back on the bed, just watched the pair in their element, bickering as Merle poked fun at his little brother, embellishing on an embarrassing story Daryl denies even took place, the younger growing more agitated when Rick took Merle’s side, both laughing at his annoyance.

Sure, the Dixon brothers probably didn’t have what the average person would call a “functional” relationship, but damn were they fun to listen to.


	8. Sleeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick has no study buddy, Daryl's got body karate, and Merle's not much help after all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi does anyone remember this fic? Proof reading? Who is that bitch, I don't know her lol
> 
> Sorry I haven't updated in literally 6 months, I drink a lot
> 
> Thanks Gilven

‘Didn’t expect such a hothead to be a cute sleeper,’ Rick mused as he draped the patchwork quilt over Daryl’s limp body, curled up in a comfortable ball, finally getting some well deserved rest after that all-nighter.

His nose twitched at a stray hair sweeping down his face, pulling the blanket around himself and turning over to the wall, settling down.

“This is all ‘f it, all the shit that lady gave me,” Merle announced, arms wrapped around a cardboard box, unlabeled and damaged where it had been buried underneath other boxes and totes. The table creaked and swayed as he set it down with a huff, wiping the years of dust off on his jeans.

Rick left the bedside and rifled through the contents, turning over stacks of books, handwritten journals, loose papers with drawings and scribblings, small jars filled with rose petals, ground spices, black pepper, mint sprigs, cayenne, each labeled accordingly.

Another little jar contained shiny black stones. ‘Obsidian.’ One with little bones of tiny rodents, and another of ashes.

All of this seemed so out of his element. Where would he even start?

Rick leaned back, sighing deep, turning to Merle.

“That’s a lot of stuff.” Merle smirked and shook his head, picking up the little jar of pepper.

“Nah, I already know how ta do everything. I’m the one who did this shit in the firs’ place, ‘member?” Rick hummed.

“Yeah, but all you did was ward it off, and that only lasted so long,” he argued, planting his hands on his hips, watching as Merle rooted around, pulling out a leather bound journal, leafing through the pages.

“We jus’ gotta do all the protection shit again, probably only take a few hours, and I can teach ya how t’ do it on yer own, it’s real easy stuff, I bet even a total brick like Darlena could figure it out,” he chucked at his brother’s expense.

“I’m down for learning the protection stuff, no problem, but to be honest, I don’t think it’s enough. No, I know it’s not enough. I wanna know how to shove it back in the hole it came out of, kill it if I can.” his voice quivered with anger

Those red eyes at his window, the hot breath ghosting his face in the field.

‘That thing is fucking with the wrong guy.’

“Hold yer horses cowboy, all I been able to do so far is ward it off-”

“Fuck warding it off, that hasn’t been working as of late, so I think it’s time to take a different approach. I want this thing dead.” His steely gaze met Merle’s, who looked shocked at Rick’s resolve.

Never before had he seen summer blues look so thunderous, so heated and intense with vengeance.

Merle smirked and let out a low, drawn whistle, leaning back on his hip, arms crossing.

“You’re a ballsy lil thing, y’know that? Not many people got the sack t’ run head first at death like that.”

“Not everybody had a fuckin’ demon voyering on them,” Rick countered.

“Daryl did, but do ya see him armed to the teeth, going in guns ablazin’? Nah, cuz he don’ got the balls t’ do it.” Merle cast a long glance at his little brother, peacefully asleep despite the voices around him.

“Nah, he’d never have the balls t’ do what you’re thinkin’ of, at least not on his own. I love the lil fucker, I really do, but he’s a follower, always has been, always will be. He’s...timid. But you, city boy, are somethin’ special. You get shit done. I like that, respect that.”

Rick took his turn to look at Daryl.

They guy definitely didn’t strike him as the so called ‘timid’ type, with all the macho intimidation he pulled and the whole scarecrow situation? No way he was the meek little thing Merle was describing.

This kid had an attitude problem, that was for sure, and he wasn’t no push over.

“That’s his sweater, ain’t it?” Rick was jarred from his train of thought, glancing down at himself, at the sweater he’d been offered the night before.

“Uh, yeah, he gave it to me to sleep in. Got cold last night.” Merle’s eyebrows raised up and he smirked, like an asshole.

“Sounds ‘bout right.” Rick fumed, steeling himself to sit down and not throw the first thing in hand at his head.

“Y’know, you’re kind of obnoxious for someone trying to help us,” Rick grumped, flipping open one of the thicker books.

Merle nodded in acknowledgement, taking a seat across the table.

“That I am.”

There was a beat of tense silence, Rick knowing there was something weighing on Merle’s mind, and he knew it portained to Daryl, the way the guy kept glancing to his little brother sleeping under the covers.

He sighed.

“I love my baby brother. He’s all I really got, and I’m gonna let you know this one thing, you best listen good, boy,” he punctuated with a stiff index finger shoved in his direction.

“He hasn’t said it, but I know he feels guilty, feels like he brought this thing down on yer head, and now he feels like he owes ya. That boy over there is the most blindly loyal person I ever known, and he’ll follow you anywhere now. This shit is yers t’ figure out now. Figure it out, and don’ get him killed.”

Rick didn’t quite expect such speech from the likes of Merle, but glancing back at Daryl, so peaceful and still, he couldn’t help but feel it. The responsibility Merle spoke of.

This really was his to solve.

He had to keep everyone safe.

 

Merle skipped out pretty quick when Rick suggest they get a start on the books, conveniently needing to meet a friend or some bullshit like that. Rick did protest or call him on what was surely a lie though. Merle didn’t strike him as the studying type.

Skimming all these books and journals and loose papers was torture, especially doing it alone. He could wake Daryl up to give him a hand but the guy did watch over him all night, he deserved the rest. At least, that’s what he thought in the first hour of slaving away over all these texts. Coming up on the third hour though, he sang a different tune.

This thing was probably after both of them since it paid Daryl a visit too, why should he be the only one to put in work?

Pushing a yellow paged book away from him, he turned in his chair, resting his arm over the backrest, prepared to yell at Daryl to get his ass up and help, but stopped.

‘Hmm...not bad.’

Daryl had turned onto his front sometime while Rick was occupied, nose nestled into the crook of his arm, threadbare t-shirt stretching tight across the vast expanse of his shoulders, sleeves riding up his biceps, all tan and thick, just the way he likes.

Come to think of it, Daryl had everything Rick liked: the muscle, the sun kissed skin, the big, strong shoulders, hard chest, the height, every physical preference he liked, Daryl had it.

Too bad he had a piss poor attitude that ruined everything else about him.

 

A knock at the door turned Rick from his assessment of the boy on the bed.

He wasn’t shocked to see Gramma at the door, but man was she surprised to see him.

“Oh Ricky! What are you doing here?”

Rick stammered, mind short circuiting. No way he could tell her the truth, he had to lie of course.

“I uhh, was just uhh, thinking I should get to know Daryl better y’know? Since we’ll be seeing a lot of each other and all, so we’ve been hangin’ out,” he scrambled for an acceptable answer, praying she’d buy it.

She eyed him up, nervous stance and all, nodding, but not seeming convinced.

“Okay, well, I hope I’m not interrupting your bonding, but I need him for a little bit.” He nodded, anything to keep her from hanging around any longer and seeing the books. She might start asking questions if that happened, and that’s not a conversation he really wants to have. ‘Hey Gramma, you have a monster running around the farm that killed a little kid a while back, but don’t worry, two teenagers are on the job, no need to fuss.’ Yeah, what a conversation that would be.

Rick quick went and shook Daryl awake, ignoring the boy’s irritated grumbling.

“C’mon Daryl, you don’t wanna keep Gramma waiting,” he stressed, the announcement of the old lady’s presence lighting a fire under his ass, picking up on Rick’s urgency and the issues her being there would present.

“Okay, okay,” he huffed, shoving on his boots and meeting her at the door.

“Hey Chipmunk, I see you and Ricky are getting along,” she said, adjusting her straw gardening hat to look up at him.

Rick couldn’t help a chuckle. “Chipmunk?”

Daryl threw a glare over his shoulder at the younger boy. “Kiss my ass.”

Gramma held back a grin. “Guess I spoke too soon.”

She whisked him away without another word, leaving Rick alone in the shed, back at square one as far as a studying partner went.

He sighed and dropped back down into his chair, flipping the book back open and getting back to it.

‘Oh well, he don’t strike me as the studying type either.’

 

He’d discovered nothing new. 

Nothing about hell beasts, if that’s what this thing even was, nothing about summoning, no symbols, no information about anything.

He might as well have just sit there with his thumbs up his ass for the past 4 hours.

The frustration had taken its toll on him, the hours of scouring each page, each hand written side note, every margin, all weighing on his eyelids.

By the 5th hour, he was dead to the world, drooling on an open book as he napped.

The sound of the door opening snapped him awake, the few minutes of rest he’d managed to get away with simply not being enough. His spine cracked as his body sat bolt straight, spit still trailing over his lips.

Of course it was Daryl, but it looked like a whole new Daryl to him.

 

No more were the dark, greasy locks masking his face. His hair had been cropped short, just the littlest bit left curling over his ear, leaving him completely exposed and clearly uncomfortable without the safety of his hair in his eyes.

He shuffled in place as Rick continued to stare, looking anywhere but at the other boy.

“Didn’ have a choice,” he mumbled, shoulders drawn up to hide himself.

Rick shook his head. ‘Is this the timid Daryl I’ve heard so much about?’

“No, it looks great, didn’t know you had eyes before,” Rick tried to make up for rudely staring, but it only seemed to make him all the more bashful, blush clearly creeping up his cheeks with no curtain of hair to mask it.

He says nothing in return to Rick’s compliment as he retreated to the safety of the bed, draping the quilt over his head, pulling it tight around himself.

‘Holy shit, this has gotta be timid Daryl.’ It was like sitting near a whole different person.

Rick figured he should do both of them a favor and take the focus off Daryl’s new hair, no matter how much he really did appreciate the new crop and sandy tone. 

“So uh, Don’t think you’ll like this much, but I haven’t found a single goddamn thing.” Daryl looked at him, and then down at the floor, chewing on the inside of his lip.

“So, whaddya wanna do ‘bout it? Can’t jus’ let it run ‘round out there.” Rick nodded in agreement.

“Well, I don’t think you’re gonna like this much either, but I do have an idea, if that’s what you wanna call it.” Daryl met his gaze, but didn’t hold it, eyes fleeting apon contact.

“Anythin’s better than jus’ sittin’ here.” Rick wasn’t so sure about that.

“I figured we go out there, go find it for ourselves, and end it the old fashioned way,” he said, motioning towards the crossbow propped against the foot of the bed.

Daryl said nothing or a moment, didn’t even seem to react to Rick proposition. Maybe he didn’t hear him? 

But then he sighed, shaking his head, finally meeting and holding Rick’s eye contact.

“I don’ like the sound of that, Rick. I really don’.” He’d never seen Daryl’s eyes like this, so worried. Daryl seemed scared, but Rick wouldn’t back down.

“It’s all we got. It’s gonna come back tonight, and we gotta fight back. I’ll go alone if I have to.”

His eyes dropped down again, unable to match the fire in Rick’s gaze, bringing a nail up to his teeth, humming with uncertainty, 

“I need your help out there, Daryl. If things go south, we can turn back, but I really think we need to do this. We gotta stop this before it does more than stalk us.”

After long minutes of silence, Daryl sighed, shoulders and fingernail dropping, eyes keeping their place on his boots, cowed into submission by Rick’s iron will.

“If things go south, we get outta there.” Rick spared no second nodding in agreement, giving Daryl whatever conditions he wanted as long as he agreed to follow him on this mission.

“Of course, whenever you want, we can just turn back and forget the whole thing.”

The other boy still seemed unconvinced, but Rick got the ‘yes’ he needed.

Tonight, they end this.


	9. Bad Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick gets his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is late for a good reason, I was reworking the outline and I went on a trip to Lake Michigan

Daryl sat on his bed, fingers curling and rubbing anxiously around his crossbow, weighing down in his lap like a cinder block. 

He hadn’t moved for what felt like hours, back aching from improper posture and constant rocking back and forth, a nervous tick of his. The military watch on his nightstand drawing closer and closer to the moment of truth did nothing to quell his peaking anxiety.

The box radio on the shelf near the door played an old country station, John Denver crackling in and out as he sat in wait. He hummed along to the guitar strum, doing everything he could not to become sick with anticipation.

It sat next to him, hovering above him and raining down on him, that foreboding sense of doom, stopping his heart cold at every creak in the roof, each scratch of the long grass against the outer wall, even his own breath cut into his senses.

His phone sat next to his watch.

He could call Merle, tell him about Rick’s crazy plan that would most likely end with the both of them being ripped to shreds. He’d come right over and put a quick stop to it, talk (or beat) some sense into Rick’s curly head. Hell, knowing his brother, he’d tie the kid to a chair and stuff a sock in his mouth if he tried to go through with this little stunt of his.

The thought brought him at least some comfort, Merle coming and saving his ass like usual, swooping in to take care of the monster and save the day, drinking a beer while he did it too, like all this possibly life threatening shit was nothing. 

It probably was nothing to someone like Merle, who faces angry drug dealers and neo nazis every day, some with guns and knives, all with evil agendas who aren’t afraid of a prison sentence over some dead hillbilly. That’s if the cops even found him. Knowing those crazy ass nazis, they probably feed him to pigs or stuff him in a wood chipper, Fargo style.

His spine shuddered at the thought. If anyone was gonna murder his brother and throw him in a wood chipper, it would be him, it’s basically his birthright and no armband wearing pussy would take that from him.

 

The door swung open and Daryl shrieked, falling backwards onto the bed and hugging his bow close, aiming at the entrance where an equally surprised Rick stood, eyes wide and shouting, backed up against the wall, frantically waving his hands in panic.

“For God’s sake don’t shoot me!” 

Daryl’s hands trembled around the body of the bow, mind slowly processing that he was in no danger. His breathing still heaved as he lowered the bow, relief washing over him as he looked at Rick and not the monster.

Rick felt relief as well when the deadly weapon zeroed in on him was dropped, hands falling to his knees and deflating, blowing out the breath that had been caught in his lungs.

“Jesus Christ Rick, knock next time.” The younger boy glanced up and smiled nervously.

“Duly noted.” The mood lightened as Daryl set his bow aside and Rick closed the door, inviting himself to sit down at the table, setting down a flashlight he’d carried on his way over, and a faded green backpack with The Rugrats printed on it. Daryl smirked.

“Where the hell you find that thing?” Rick smiled and ran his hands over the cartoon characters.

“It was in the attic,” he explained, unzipping it and rifling around inside, producing the silver knife from the previous night.

“Couldn’t exactly just walk out the door with this without Gramma asking at least a few questions.” Daryl shrugged in agreement.

“Here, for you,” Rick said again, rooting through the bag again and holding a fresh cookie out, Daryl’s brows knitting in confusion. Really? For him?

“Uh, thanks?” Rick nodded as he took it. It was still warm from the oven, soft to the touch.

“Y’know, for keeping watch last night. And for the sweater. And the knife. And for-”

“Yeah, I get it. It’s no problem,” he dismissed, feeling his cheeks beginning to heat up from all the attention, setting it down next to the watch on the nightstand.

“No, really. Thanks for everything. I know you don’t exactly like me, that we didn’t start out on the best of terms, but thanks for going along with this. I owe you.”

Daryl didn’t say anything to that. He didn’t have time to figure out a response before his watch on the nightstand began to beep, garnering both of their attention, the light mood suddening dropping.

Midnight.

He let it go for a few moments, each sound of the alarm filling up the sudden silence.

Just the alarm and the eerie cackle of the radio.

He reached over to silence it, dropping it back into the drawer where he normally kept it safe, and looked back to Rick, who looked much more confident than himself.

“Well,” he said, standing up from his seat, “Time to end this shit.”

Daryl kept sat on the bed, swallowing around his nerves. He looked up at Rick, but said nothing, cradling his bow to his chest like a baby with a blanket. Rick took notice of the strange behavior, sighing deep.

“Look Daryl, I know you don’t wanna do this, and I really don’t either, but this thing has to die. Sooner or later, it’s gonna get to the house and someone is gonna get killed. I can’t let that happen.” Merle’s speech of responsibility echoed in his head. 

“You don’t have to come with, but I’m going either way. I’d appreciate it if you came with, but I’ll understand if you don’t.” Daryl was up off the bed, shouldering the strap of his bow, eyes stuck on the floor.

“Yeah, I do have to go.” His response was curt and bitten.

Not how Rick wanted this to go, but it was a yes nonetheless.

“Well uh, thank you. Let’s get going then.” He opened the creaky door, pausing for Daryl to follow.

Just with a quick up and down glance, it looked like he was about to drop where he stood. His face had blanched of color and fists trembled where they clutched the strap, eyes glassy and fragile.

Oh Jesus Christ, now he was beginning to get a bad feeling about this.

A chill crept up his spine and he suppressed a shiver as a cold breeze made its way in.

The eerie crackle of the radio rose up, southern rock echoing like a ghost.

He bit his lip, turning his gaze out the door, out into the darkness of the field beyond the light of the shed. Out there, where a beast await. Where those glowing eyes like smoldering cinders wait to lay upon him again.

The radio cut out completely, Daryl having switched it off, coming to stand next to him.

“Let’s just get this over with.”

Daryl flipped the lights off as they began their suicide mission. 

 

“Okay, just keep behind me and have your bow ready.” Daryl hummed in response, Rick’s flashlight dim on the stomach acid yellow door. He reached out cautious fingers, the door lurching open with the slightest push. It had been ajar, not how he had left it when he left on that first day, and Daryl didn’t come near when he’d been lead here during his investigation.

It was here. Or at least it had been at some point, not long ago.

The inside, from what memory served, seemed relatively undisturbed. It all looked to be a mess, but for what it was, it seemed the same as when he first saw the state of disrepair it had become.

He glanced back to his cover, nodding Daryl inside to follow him. He noted the hesitation in his steps, but he did follow.

Each creak under his feet heightened his anxiety, but the creaking was the only sound. No wind, no owls, no insects chirps, and most notably, no horrible growling.

“Okay, I don’t think it’s in here right now,” Rick whispered, stepping in further, hearing Daryl branch off to his side, checking things out for himself, no doubt using his hunter’s instinct or whatever it was called.

“It’s been here recently though,” Daryl spoke up, pointing out a patch of unsettled dust on the floor.

Rick would’ve payed attention to Daryl and his useful expertise but god, that smell was just overwhelming. What the hell could even make a smell like that? He recoiled and pulled the collar of his borrowed sweater over his nose, but it penetrated right through the cologne and pine. He turned to Daryl, who had done the same as him, collar over his nose.

“The hell is that?” Rick whisper-shouted. 

“Somethin’ dead,” he answered, keeping his back to the wall, skirting around the room, searching high and low, the same as Rick did on the other side.

The converged at the wall opposite the door, Rick’s light shining down at the source of the stench, stomach churning at the sight.

It was...well, he didn’t exactly know what is had once been, but now it was a festering pile of viscera and maggots, black acids and blood pooled underneath, soaking into the floor and splattered in long streaks up the surface of the upturned table. 

“What was it?” Rick asked, unable to tear his eyes away from the gore, heart stuttering in his chest. 

An ugly, black beetle crawled across what must have once been the ribcage, ducking back down into the carnage where it fed and homed. His mouth filled with saliva.

Daryl was eerily quiet about the whole thing, not even answering Rick question.

“Daryl,” he tried again, this time breaking away from the sight and gazing up at the other boy, unnerved by what he saw.

Daryl like he’d never seen him. 

He’d seen him scared, when they were on the deck together, how ashen and shaken he had been, how far away he had become. Even before coming out, back in the shed, how hesitant and uneasy he’d been, holding his crossbow like a toddler holding dearly onto his mother’s skirt.

This was different. This was frightening to Rick.

His eyes were ever present, so consumed, brimming with tears, cascading down his cheeks moments before his trembling lips opened up and a hushed whimper escaped.

Rick was taken back, calling Daryl’s name again, grabbing him by the arm and shaking when he again was ignored, stepping around to stand in front of him, doubling his efforts to reach him.

“Daryl! Daryl! Answer me!”

“...Rick...this is gonna be us…”

His voice was so slight, but prominent nonetheless, his words weighing on Rick’s mind.

He glanced behind him where what was once an animal remain, considering those words, fists bunching up in the fabric of Daryl’s sleeves as he peered over his shoulder.

He shook his head sternly after a moment of deliberation, reaching up to touch Daryl’s flushed cheeks gently, coaxing him to look down at him, eye to eye.

“Daryl, look at me. It’s not gonna be us. We’re gonna be just fine, okay?” Daryl swallowed and pulled away, pressing close to the wall.

“No, Rick. We gotta leave right now. We never shoulda come out here in the firs’ place,”his voice rose, becoming overwhelmed in panic. Rick shook his head again, struggling to keep Daryl with him, gripping his bow strap to keep him from running.

“No Daryl, we have to do this, we don’t have time to sit and read books that tell us nothing!” Rick whisper-shouted, but Daryl seemed deaf to it.

“NO!” Daryl yelled, pushing Rick off of him. “I never wanted t’ come out here in the firs’ place! You dragged me out here and said if I wanted t’ call it off I could, so that’s what I’m doin’! I’m goin’ back, you stay out here an’ get eaten if you want!” Tears poured freely as he shouted, wiping them away furiously as he headed for the door.

“I knew you were a pussy!” Rick shouted, a bit shocked at the words leaving his mouth, as if it were not him speaking, but some other Rick Grimes from the part of his mind that still thought the worst of Daryl Dixon. 

“That whole tough guy act was all bullshit and I see who you really are Daryl. You’re a coward and you’re willing to let this thing kill someone all because you’re scared.” His voice sank dangerously low, each word spit with venom and accusation, but Daryl payed no mind, throwing a middle finger up as he kept walking, shoulders shaking as he did.

The Rick Grimes controlling his body and mind snapped, lunging his entire weight on Daryl’s back, taking the other boy by surprise, knocking them both to the dusty floor, knees and elbows knocking as they struggled against one another.

“Rick goddammit,” Daryl grunted as his hair was pulled and a hand clawed at his face. He growled, using his superior strength to push his body up off the ground along with Rick on his back, the aggressor falling off but unrelenting in his conviction for a fight, delivering an open handed smack to Daryl’s face, hard enough to impair him for a moment.

Daryl ended up on top despite Rick’s best efforts, dodging fists and a knee to the crotch in attempt to restrain his assault.

“Fuck you, stupid bitch,” Rick grit between clenched teeth, struggling as he was pinned, but satisfied to see a scratch on Daryl’s cheek begin to swell with blood.

“Rick jus’ stop, this is over, we both gotta go,” Daryl plead.

Rick didn’t respond. He just lay there, immobile by how Daryl had him, breath heaving, eyes beginning to water with frustration.

“Rick, we’ll come up with somethin’ else, this jus’ ain’t the way. Please, come back with me.”

 

The only sound in the space of the crumbling clubhouse was their leveling breaths.

No wind, no owls, no insects chirps, but penetrating through the dense silence of their tension, was a sound, so distinct yet so foreign, stopping both of their hearts cold, eyes wide open.

A low, rumbling growl, permeating throughout the space of the clubhouse.

 

Rick is quick to jump into action, knocking a shocked Daryl off of him, his body hitting the ground with a muted ‘thud.’ Rick shucked the Rugrats backpack onto the floor, ripping the zipper open, eyes locking onto the open door while he rifled around inside, fingers finding purchase around the cold ergonomic handle of the silver knife.

A trembling hand wrapped around his forearm, keeping him in place.

“Rick please, let’s jus’ leave while we still got the chance.” His voice was frantic now, but Rick knew how this had to go.

“No. Cover me,” his voice was steel as he rose up off the dusty and stained floor.

Making his way back to the door, he heard Daryl’s shaky steps behind him, dim flashlight shining on the floor.

 

Even with the flashlight, it was pitch dark outside, the moonlight having faded behind heavy cloud cover. But standing out there outside the lonely clubhouse, they didn’t need any light to find what they were searching for, it had already found them.

Among the dark pines and towering aspens, red eyes like smoldering cinders revealed themselves, evil snarl accompanying their glow.

And just like that, Rick was at their mercy. Those eyes locked onto his, commanding him to keep still, to not scream, to not run as it emerged from the cover of the trees, out into the open, into full view.

Rick wasn’t there anymore. He was somewhere else, retreated deep into the recesses of his mind, right where those eyes wanted him to be.

He was powerless to them. They would take him, and he would die, just like Daryl said he would.

He stood motionless as it approached, deaf to Daryl’s pleas behind him.

“Rick! Rick, run!” Rick could hear him, but he sounded so far away, so out of his reach.

It came closer, gray saliva pouring from its drooping, curled lips as it eyed up Rick’s prone body, an ugly black tongue falling out of its mouth, wrapping around a top row of browning, gnarled teeth. 

He heard a whimper. Did it come from him? Or from somewhere else? He wasn’t sure, he wasn’t sure of anything other then what those eyes wanted.

They wanted his body, his blood, his flesh.

And they were coming closer and closer to take that from him.

 

Their trance was interrupted by an arrow piercing the beasts neck, a thick stream of black blood spurting from the wound, jarring the creature from its hunt.

It let out an unearthly scream, shaking Rick’s very core.

 

He wasn’t exactly sure what happened after that, it all seemed so quick and his mind was unable to process. It was there in front of him, thirsting for his soul, and then it was gone the next moment, but it hadn’t retreated back into the trees. It was behind him, and it was furious.

The dim glow of the flashlight pooled at his shoes, linear with the ground.

Hadn’t Daryl had the flashlight? Where had he gone? Did he run away like they both should have?

He heard screaming again, but it seemed closer, not so distorted. It was also behind him, but this wasn’t the guttural rage of the beast. No, this one was made of fear and panic and pain. It was human.

It was Daryl.

Daryl was the one screaming, screaming for him.

“Rick, help me please!”

Rick found it within himself to turn to the source.

 

Daryl was on the ground, the beast on top of him, thrashing and clawing and bleeding, kicking and crying, pleading for his life.

He’s not sure where the power to break away came from, maybe from God or maybe from another deep recess of his mind, but he found it somewhere, fist clenching tight around the rosewood handle, an intense energy from deep within bursting forth.

The next moment, his hand was covered in blood and the silver blade was plunged deep within the beast’s eye socket. It screamed again as Rick twisted the blade, the mangled flesh sizzling and smoking as the wound overflowed and poured down his arm.

“Get away from him you sonofabitch!” Rick shouted, ripping the blade away as it twisted its massive body and threw him to the ground, using himself to shied Daryl if it decided to rip them both apart.

But it ran, back into the rows of trees and off into the still of the night.

 

Rick didn’t waste time waiting for it to come back for more, he just wanted to get the hell out of there now that he had full control of his faculties. 

“Okay, we gotta go, it might come back!” Rick hustled, searching around for the flashlight, finding just a few feet away. He got no response to his command. He looked back.

Daryl wasn’t moving.

Rick stopped bustling around, silent for a moment, calling his name again, waiting for a response and becoming nervous when he didn’t get one.

“...Daryl…” he tried again, crawling slowly on his hands and knees, leaning over the boy on the ground, only now realizing how much blood there was.


End file.
